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THAT BOY 
O’ MINE 

BY THE 

AUTHOR OF “AUNT DICE” 

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Nashville, Tenn.; Dallas, Tex. 
Publishing House M. E. Church, South 
Smith & Lamar, Agents 
1908 



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ii.i6HARY of CQNGRE^SJ 
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Copyrighted 

1908 

Smith & Lamar 


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To the best of sisters 

Mrs, Lavinia Hill Brown 



CONTENTS. 


page 


Introduction 9 

Chapter 1 19 

Chapter II 39 

Chapter III 59 

Chapter IV 74 

Chapter V 88 

Chapter VI iii 

Chapter VII 142 


( 7 ) 


) 


INTRODUCTION. 


The pages of our books and periodicals have 
been so enriched by observant tourists and cor- 
respondents that the veriest child among us is 
familiarized with the characteristics of foreign 
peoples. Thus Europe, for instance, is copious- 
ly typified in America, from the sad-eyed Rus- 
sian to the peasant of Southern France. 

The man with the wheel and kodak brings us 
a nearer conception of wayside personalities. 
They stand out in relief against their native 
backgrounds — ''mine host/’ the tavern keeper, or 
the ruddy-faced English farmer; the Highland 
Scot in kilt and plaid, the Irish wit from his 
vantage ground of the jaunting car, with the 
respective settings of English lanes and hedges, 
or ivy-covered cottages; lochs, mountains, and 
fields of heather; castles in ruins, or the stone 
hut, potato patch, and pigsty of the Emerald 
Isle. 

There is, too, the Dutchman, with pipe and 

( 9 ) 


lO 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


beer, or the cleanly Dutchwoman drawing a 
cart. The humble peasant treads the cobble- 
stones of his village street in cumbersome wood- 
en shoes. There are picturesque Italians within 
sight of historic bay or villa, or ruined wall, 
where hang in purple clusters the famed grapes 
of sunny Italy. And the Greek, of dainty dress, 
stands under the fair skies which brood over 
Mount Olympus. These are all familiar pic- 
tures, by no means new. The schoolboy who 
cons his geography knows them well, better even 
than zone or parallel. 

But America cannot be so classified. This 
country of conglomerate blood has no national 
type. And, indeed, how’ could there be? Many 
nations contribute to the flow of American blood, 
though England be the mother country. 

The result of such “confusion of tongues’’ 
and promiscuous blood-mixing, however, is in- 
teresting, and ofttimes amusing. Just fancy 
Puritan and Cavalier blood flowing together; 
Huguenot and Latinized America, or American- 
ized Latin; Scotch-Irish of bluest Presbyterian 
hue and Catholic of purest popery. What a re- 


INTRODUCTION. 


II 


flection on the spilled blood of centuries or gen- 
erations gone! German and French extracts 
abound; Castilian and Dutch, or French and 
English; but withal, the predominant strain of 
Anglo-Saxon, which doubtless provides this great 
republic her stamina. 

American types, so-called, are prejudged and 
hastily constructed by foreigners. That a young- 
ster has outgrown pinafores is an idea slow to 
digest. Still, it is not surprising that they have 
lately jumped from the pioneer with a toma- 
hawk in his skull to the fabulous money king 
and financier of the North. 

America, with no national type, is America, 
however, as ‘^Spain is Spain.’’ The world over 
there is none other such people. And there are 
in this republic local types more varied and 
numerous, and fully as interesting, as Old World 
personalities. 

The New Englander is hardly a product of 
the soil (though there is no replica of him, un- 
less Japan claims the honor), but he is the cul- 
mination of events — and else. A Yankee he is, 
and will be, as shrewd as his conception of the 


12 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


world. The Southerner is distinctly so— let us 
hope that he may continue to be — and the West- 
erner has a breezy individuality all his own. 
Either of which can in no wise represent Amer- 
ica. 

Subdivided into narrower lines of village lo- 
calities, we find rich material for the curious 
observer. Here are the lettered and unlettered, 
the progressive and nonprogressive, the rich and 
poor, the high and low; wiseacres and simple 
minds — a very medley of contradictions. 

Here is the so-called Irishman without his 
brogue or shamrock; the Scot who never heard 
of a Wallace or MacGregor; the eccentric Eng- 
lishman minus his ancestral pride — Americanized 
all, born anew through generations of men who 
passed through pioneer days. Revolutionary 
fires, and civil wars. Character is not formed in 
a day, however true it is that with the passing 
of the old new men arise, girded and equipped 
for every issue. Village types are but the sum- 
ming up of generations, localities, and custom. 

Of such Tennessee has her full quota. And 
picking up the prosy little village of Glendower 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


in a haphazard way as an illustration, we find 
here interesting types of humanity, showing pro- 
clivities and characteristics both charming and 
amusing. 

The citizens who made up the personnel of 
Glendower ( the past tense is used, for Glendower 
too is passing) were of the usual class of poor, 
worthy whites, who counted not on noble an- 
cestry. They were a thrifty, contented lot ; phi- 
losophers in their way, unearthing a world of 
humor from the dullest details of daily living. 
They were perhaps a product of pioneer days, 
cautious, circumspect, curious ; skilled in econom- 
ics and clinging tenaciously to old customs and 
primitive methods of living. 

To be just Glendower, with the shut-in life of 
Tennessee hills, was painfully dull. There were 
few daily happenings to engage the mind of the 
village. The future was uninviting, and for this 
reason Glendower lived largely in the past, or 
fed, when hungry, on stale and musty stories. 
True, the much-told tales of the past were scant 
enough. Sensations were uncommon in that un- 
eventful period. There was one of a murder, 


THAT BOY MINE. 


14 

of a feud never forgotten, of a runaway mar- 
riage — all dating from misty years agone. 

Down by the bend of the distant river was 
the murder; and a tall, white sycamore, ghostly 
and still, marked the spot. There was, too, near 
by an old haunted house in a boggy field. None 
ever prospered or lived long who rented it. It 
was certainly an evil-looking house, turning a 
painted yellow face to the morning sun and hid- 
ing in its shadow a number of dark rooms with 
damp, moldy passages. There were war-time 
tales as a spicy alternative. Valorous deeds were 
enlarged upon; deeds also glorious and inglori- 
ous, to the credit and discredit of the local sur- 
vivors. Woe to the one who lived by his wits 
in those days, or who shaved closely the name 
of '‘deserter !” 

It was an item of pride that Mr. Pugh hid his 
gold throughout the war’s history in an old 
hollow stump, and lost never a dollar of it. 
There were also here and there historic spots 
where the blue and the gray met in skirmishes 
and left a scattering of bullets as souvenirs. 

But the sleeping dead of Glendower, gath- 


INTRODUCTION. 


15 


ered away under the flat gray stones of the old 
churchyard — how could they have slumbered so 
peacefully when their lives, their doings and mis- 
doings, their failings and virtues were so pain- 
fully and persistently rehearsed at the village 
store? Few there were who passed with “hon- 
orable mention;” and he who had lived so care- 
lessly in his day came forth on winter nights — 
mayhap against his will — to revel again by the 
red-hot stove and spin his merry yarns to the 
loungers of Glendower. 

A fair sprinkling of foreign extractions in 
and around Glendower relieved the monotony 
of pioneer types. There were those who were 
true Scotch, yet Bonnie Scotland, with all her 
lochs and braes, was an unknown land to them. 
Teddy Reynolds, of whose skill in carpentership 
many a quaint home in Glendower testified, called 
himself an Irishman; but, strange to say, he 
sang “Dixie” in place of Irish melodies. And 
when in his cups (Kentucky Bourbon was his 
weakness), he wept over — Erin’s green isle? O 
no ! over the good old days of Calhoun, Clay, and 
Webster. But for his weakness it was said, by 


i6 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


the way, that he might have been a statesman 
himself like unto the ideals he mourned. 

Mr. Pugh, of Welsh descent, who lived over 
the brow of a hill, was a highly respected neigh- 
bor, whose sterling qualities made him so. 
There was a tradition in Glendower that during 
the days of the Revolution a chest of gold plate 
and jewels was started from the mountains of 
Wales across the sea to the Pugh heirs, reaching 
at last the harbor of New York. This treasure 
was never again heard from; but the tradition 
still hangs in Glendower, hoary with age and 
heavy with its own mystery. 

Wales therefore had long been to the village 
a land of curious interest. It was Mr. Pugh’s 
fine old ancestor, who was doubtless a reader of 
Shakespeare and a lover of his native land, who 
gave to the hamlet within Tennessee hills the 
suggestive name of “Glendower.” 

The following portrayal of Tennessee village 
life will perchance interest or amuse the reader. 

Mr. Stanley, the kind neighbor, the fine, schol- 
arly gentleman, is of a type too well known 
among Southerners to need further comment. 


INTRODUCTION. 


17 


If in the evolution of character ‘That Boy o’ 
Mine” proves a psychological study, the reader 
will kindly remember that the question was 
rather stumbled upon than otherwise, and no at- 
tempt at a learned presentation of the science is 
made. The writer had more in mind the mas- 
tery of will and endeavor over the most ad- 
verse circumstances, and at heart a sincere sym- 
pathy for the struggling youth. With the open- 
ing chapters the characters speak for them- 
selves. The Author. 

2 



THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


CHAPTER I. 

M ILLICENT STANLEY slipped one 
slender finger between the pages of 
her history. 

^^Surely you admit, Theo, that Philip 
Hays is above the average lad in many 
respects. Every one calls him a 'prodi- 
gy.’ Come !” she said persuasively. "Do 
you not think him remarkable?” 

Miss Theodora calmly surveyed the 
damask table linen she was darning. "He 
has a remarkable memory, certainly, and 
— well, isn’t he remarkably self-confi- 
dent?” 

"O Theo, what scanty praise! Why, 
Philip Hays is the brightest pupil in Glen- 
dower school, and by far the brainiest boy 

(19) 


20 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


I have ever known. How pleased you 
would be if I had all my studies at my fin- 
gers’ ends as he has! And how he does 
'figgerl’ Those horrid angles are beau- 
tiful to him. Professor B — says it is a 
pleasure to teach him.” 

^'Does Professor B — teach etiquette in 
his school ?” asked Miss Theodora evenly. 

‘^Theo, that is the one thing he does not 
learn readily.” 

'Tt is difficult to learn,” said Miss The- 
odora. 

^^No,” continued Millicent, musingly. 
‘Thilip may never possess the bearing of 
a gentleman of birth and culture. I can- 
not imagine him bowing to the shabbiest 
woman in the village with my father’s 
courtly grace. He may never be a pol- 
ished man of letters, and he will offend 
in polite society; but was not Carlyle rude 
and Dr. Johnson uncouth — a very boor at 
times?” 

‘'Absurd, Millicent! Remember the 
boy’s surroundings.” 


THAT BOY 0' MINE. 


21 


''Ah, what a barrier his environments 
are! I fear he will always be queer and 
awkward and rude/’ 

"His vanity, Millicent, spoils his learn- 
ing,” said Miss Theodora gravely. 

"Philip is badly spoiled,” said Millicent, 
flushing. "But with all his vanities and 
peculiarities, mark me, Theo, a scholar 
he will be.” 

"Can 'any good thing’ come out of 
Glendower?” asked Miss Theodora medi- 
tatively. "Philip is a precocious child, led 
on by his mother’s eager ambitions. But 
to revolutionize himself, what a warring 
of members there will be! He will have 
much to learn and much to overcome.” 

"He has an iron will,” said Millicent, 
sighing over some well-remembered tilt. 
"He is far beyond his kind. If you knew 
him as I do, Theo, you would not think 
him ordinary.’’ 

"I think him far from ordinary. To be 
plain, Millicent, I believe there is much in 
the boy. Not thatT think him 'remarka- 


22 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


ble’ or a ^prodigy/ but because of his per- 
sistent application he gives promise of 
unusual mental ability. I regard him as 
merely an average lad, developing his ca- 
pacity for learning as any boy may do. 
Philip is rude, vain, spoiled, and with him 
to overstep the narrow lines of Glendower 
training is well-nigh impossible.’’ 

^‘But what will higher education do for 
him, Theo?” cried Millicent eagerly. 
course at Vanderbilt — at Harvard! A 
year or two in Germany ! I am quite per- 
suaded,” she concluded buoyantly, '‘that 
I shall adopt him.” 

"Adopt him if you will,” smiled Miss 
Theodora. "But I warn you — ^you will 
need to be wise and exceedingly careful, 
little godmother.” 

Philip Hays had been known or heard 
of since his infancy as the "prodigy” of 
the village. There had been smiling as- 
surances to that effect from the mother, 
and sundry hints of the same nature from 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


23 


the father, Jacob Hays, who not infre- 
quently ’lowed’' his knowledge of a 
‘'peart chap” at home while that infant 
was yet in swaddling clothes. 

The “peart chap,” it must be explained, 
was but a forerunner of the fond and 
boastful possessive — “that boy o’ mine.” 
The tongue of the father, after proving 
the kindly heart of the village, took on a 
bolder theme. “That boy o’ mine” be- 
came in time the most familiar saying 
known to the village. The phrase inter- 
polated the father’s speech and rounded 
his sentences. His extravagant use of it 
aroused the interest and easy good nature 
of the villagers, who listened with a grow- 
ing faith, surprisingly credulous for that 
deliberative body. If reports were true, 
Philip Hays was truly a prodigy. “He’s 
a for’ard chap — that boy o’ mine,” so fre- 
quently uttered, had its effect. The in- 
habitants of this sleepy but reflective vil- 
lage, therefore, after weighing these flat- 
tering expressions with due precaution. 


24 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


had begun to look upon this remarkable 
boy as their future ‘'celebrity/’ 

And dull little Glendower, bound with- 
in a cradle of Tennessee hills, welcomed 
even the pleasing suspense of the boy’s 
future. A standing theme afforded food 
for speculation and daily comment pro 
and con. Topics were scant at Glendow- 
er. After the harvests and weather were 
discussed, there remained little more to 
enlarge upon, save threadbare war stories 
or worn-out tales of older times. True, 
the whistle of a locomotive from a distant 
railway station was listened for by the 
keen-eared villagers, and utilized as a 
faithful barometer by the sound thereof. 
Then, again, the advent of a visitor from 
Nashville (whether a drummer, a candi- 
date for office, or a minister, he was 
known in a twinkling) rippled the smooth 
calm of the village pleasurably. If a 
stranger he proved, with a polite inquiry 
how far to Glendower, a village repre- 
sentative arose solemnly to the occasion 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


25 


and remarked with a drawl that if the 
stranger looked about him he might find 
himself there. 

Such an event was really a boon to the 
daily gatherings at Glendower post office. 
A smile and comment went the rounds, 
not without a display of pride in the one 
wide street, the corner store and post 
office, the blacksmith shop and forge, 
and the dozen or more weather-beaten 
houses up and down the valley, called by 
the more familiar name of Happy Hol- 
low. 

But the chief pride of the village was 
the White House (so named from its white 
coating), a house of ample dimensions, of 
columned galleries and lofty halls. Its be- 
longings, the broad meadows stretching 
to the heart of the village (the post office 
corner), and the fertile lowlands beyond 
were pointed out with pride by many a 
shrewd farmer. 

The owner of the White House was no 
less an ornament to Glendower. Indeed, 


26 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


all questions of weightier matter were re- 
ferred to him for his kind and courteous 
counsel. Even Teddy Reynolds, the wit 
of the village, doffed his cap with inimita- 
ble Irish grace as he said : ''Ah ! Mr. Stan- 
ley, sur, yeVe rubbed your head ’ghnst col- 
lege walls, an’ it s not for the likes of us 
to withstand ye, sur, at all.” 

The White House, unlike its neighbors, 
stood several rods from the low stone wall 
fronting the village street. A grove of 
noble beech trees heightened the ancient 
appearance of the fine old lawn, modern- 
ized only by hammocks and rustic seats. 
Farther down the slope elm trees waved 
graceful arms where orioles swung their 
nests, and in the scattering cedars cat- 
birds called plaintively or sang their few 
sweet notes. Here in peaceful retire- 
ment lived Mr. Stanley with his daugh- 
ters, Theodora and Millicent, the good 
angels of Happy Hollow. 

The remaining lands of the village 
were divided into small farms to the right 


THAT BOY 0 ’ MINE. 


27 

and left of the street, running westward. 
Around were the Tennessee hills. 

Opposite the White House was the 
modest home of Jacob Hays, a descendant 
of one of the village pioneers. His trim 
little farm of thirty acres, with the neces- 
sary addition of timbered woodland, and 
the small brown cottage, with its wide ban- 
istered porch, had long been his heart’s 
pride. He was known in Glendower as 
a contented man. Indeed, it was said 
that the Hays family was the happiest in 
all Happy Hollow ; not for the home alone, 
though its outlook was as fair as the 
White House itself, but it was argued 
that Jacob Hays ^^never owed a dollar in 
his life.” Therefore, neither care nor 
anxious unrest had ever invaded that 
home. No one ever heard the man com- 
plain of hard times, particularly as his 
bank account grew heavier with each 
year’s harvest. In drought or mildew he 
always managed to lay by a generous sur- 
plus. 


28 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


But in the judgment of village author- 
ities there was nothing wonderful in 
Jacob Hays’s prosperity, while Abilene 
Hays, his tall, comely wife, was the hard- 
est worker in the village. Her energy 
was untiring. She hung out the whitest 
clothes on the earliest hour of the earliest 
workday of the week. She was famous 
for her s^^hite bread, her jellies, preserves, 
and pastry, her canned and dried fruits; 
for her poultry, her butter, her spinning, 
weaving, and knitting — excellent qualities 
all — but one look into her luminous, deep- 
set, gray eyes revealed to an observer 
some quality of mind that her working 
hands could not interpret. 

To heighten the mystery which clothed 
the mother of the future ''celebrity,” 
Abilene Hays was a reading woman. It 
was known at the post office that she reg- 
ularly subscribed for a number of period- 
icals — an indulgence which her husband 
bore with kindly, considering that she paid 
for the luxury with her own earnings and 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


29 


molded the candles by which she read, 
for she never opened a book under the 
broad light of day. 

Like her neighbors, Abilene Hays kept 
a clean, spotless house, whose floors, 
guiltless of carpets, shone with a polished 
brightness, which repeated scrubbings of 
soap and sand were sure to leave. Like 
her kind, she wore the stiffened print 
gown, hanging plainly, with the inevitable 
white muslin apron, whose checkered pat- 
tern varied in size with the prevailing 
fashion, from two-by-two to the broad 
square inch. With the ruffled gingham 
sunbonnet, daintily fluted, she stood a 
type of the village woman. In this guise 
the church on the hill was usually attend- 
ed. Many a sweet face was hidden by the 
long sunbonnet, and patient eyes looked 
out from beneath the fluted ruffling. It 
was only on ^^big days’’ at church that 
smarter gowns were donned and ^^store 
bonnets” of more pretentious style were 
lifted carefully from their bandboxes. 


30 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


On such occasions the men, groomed in 
‘^store clothes,’’ walked beside their bet- 
ter halves in shoes laboriously blackened; 
their pantaloons turned up an inch pr 
more at the hem, displaying an inch or 
more of white woolen socks worn sum- 
mer and winter. 

Just here it may be mentioned that 
there was a friendly rivalry among the 
matrons of the community in the spin- 
ning and knitting industry. It was the 
wife’s good pleasure to clothe the foot of 
her lord with her whitest and softest sock. 
Consequently there was much labor ex- 
pended on carding and bleaching of wool, 
and many a wheel sang busily under the 
practical fingers of the housewives. It 
was, perhaps, through a delicate consid- 
eration of these wifely attentions that the 
white socks were so carefully displayed at 
church. 

At the village store these sons of the 
soil were more comfortable. The socks 
were an ever-present necessity; but coats 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


and waistcoats were laid aside, and jeans 
trousers of generous proportions were 
held securely midway their backs by 
white, homemade ''galluses.’’ 

It was here — at the post office — that 
the capabilities and possibilities of Philip 
Hays’s future were discussed. Some 
" ’lowed” one thing, some "calculated” an- 
other. All conceded that the youth had 
a "powerful mind.” Glendower generally 
agreed on a given point. But — and here 
opinions differed — how far would Jacob 
Hays go toward helping his son to a col- 
lege education? While some "reckoned” 
he would do the "square thing by the 
boy,” others touched their pockets sig- 
nificantly, implying that here was a stop- 
ping place to the father’s ambitions. 

The mother was ambitous, painfully 
so, and possessed some means of her 
own; but — and here the controversy end- 
ed as usual — was there ever a Hays of 
farthest kith or kin, married into or out of 


32 


THAT BOY 0' MINE. 


the family, who spent his or her money 
in the interests of education when there 
was a tract of land to be purchased or an 
additional sum to be stowed away in the 
savings bank? Silence here was an un- 
qualified assent. 

The Hays family believed in land in- 
vestments. A ^^piece of dirt’’ was a choice 
possession. Their holdings were small, 
to be sure, but the soil was free. Debt 
was an intolerable incubus among them, 
and mortgages were unknown. Wher- 
ever a Hays settled with his Lares and 
Penates, there he grew. Whether or not 
he enlarged his borders, he came, nev- 
ertheless, to stay. A clear title was his 
security. 

There were Hayses and Hayses plant- 
ed up and down Willow Creek — prolific 
branches of the family — and all good liv- 
ers of their kind ; but, with their propensi- 
ty for land-buying, scant attention was 
paid to the schooling of their young. It 
was not likely that Jacob Hays would 


THAT BOY 0' MINE. 


33 


prove a departure from the principles of 
his forefathers, though he did live in the 
midst of Glendower, with the exceptional 
advantage of the post office and daily 
mail. Jacob Hays was well enough, so 
far as he went, honest and worthy. He 
was a ^deetle’’ close in money matters, to 
be sure; but all of Glendower were so of 
necessity, except the generous livers at 
the White House. Mr. Stanley, sir, could 
afford to be liberal. 

To be poor among themselves was to 
be popular in Glendower. A true son of 
the village apparently depreciated his 
blessings. His was ever the humblest of 
homes and the scantiest of boards, where 
^'both meat and bread’’ were served. 
The truth of the matter was, all of Glen- 
dower were comfortably housed and fed. 
The pride of hearth and home cropped 
out adversely — that was all. 

However poor they were, to them life 
was sweet. They did not allow the fact of 
their poverty to disturb their joys of liv- 


34 


THAT BOY MINE. 


ing. There was much to be got out of 
life worth the while. They possessed a 
decided talent for putting humor into 
trifles or making a dull day interesting. 
Why, existence itself was a boon for 
which they were thankful. They rather 
enjoyed their little shifts and makeshifts. 
To be poor was a light affliction. They 
really relished ^^stinting.’’ The word 
''economy, owing to a general rivalry in 
its favor, was ground to a fine point. 
These conditions led naturally to some ex- 
tremes. The child was taught that every 
copper had its full, or exaggerated, sig- 
nificance; a dime was worth more than 
twice its face value; a dollar was as "big 
as a wagon wheel.’’ 

If economical shifts were living joys, a 
piece of extravagance was a perpetual 
grief. Jacob Hays, it was said, was never 
guilty of but one extravagance. The out- 
lay was a personal one, and the reckless 
disregard of cost smacked somewhat of 
adventure. The year that this act was 


THAT BOY O* MINE. 


S5 


committed had become an era with him; 
other minor happenings he dated back 
and forth to this notable event, when he 
spent ‘^t-w-e-n-ty-five dollars for a worth- 
less toy.” 

With all his peculiarities (in which the 
inhabitants of Glendower bristled), Jacob 
Hays was considered a quiet neighbor, 
void of offense, never allowing a hoof of 
his cattle to trespass on a neighbor’s field. 
As such, Mr. Stanley, a lifelong friend, 
esteemed him highly, and showed a kind- 
ly interest in the happy little household 
across the way. 

At the White House Jacob Hays was 
a frequent visitor; a weekly half hour 
spent there between the close of twilight 
and his early bedtime had become with 
him a habit of years. In all this time 
his familiar greeting, ^'Howdy — ^how-de- 
do,” had never failed of its startling ef- 
fect, though Mr. Stanley’s hearty ''Come 
in, old friend,” betrayed no hint of sur- 
prise. His departure was as abrupt as 


36 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


his coming. The Stanley household had 
long learned the uselessness of expostu- 
lation. It was learned also that new top- 
ics introduced met with little response 
from the rather silent visitor. The weath- 
er discussed was ''putty toler’ble good’’ 
or "bad.” The crops seldom varied from 
"middlin’ well.” On the broader theme 
of politics his one idea prevailed, though 
held up in a supplicatory manner, habitual 
to him, referring his unbending opinion 
in an apparently cringing way to the wis- 
dom of others. 

"This is a land of liberty, I take it — 
a free kuntry. If I ain’t mistaken, I can 
vote as — I — please. Ain’t that right?” 
And the way that the stout stick was 
planted on the floor indicated no less than 
the square jaw, made squarer still by ill- 
fitting teeth, that this predominant idea of 
politics, in which patriotism had little to 
do, would succumb to no power of logic. 
Individual and not national privileges ab- 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


37 

sorbed his attention. Mr. Stanley some- 
times ventured a step farther. 

“Liberty is a great thing, neighbor; 
but its responsibilities are greater.’^ 

“Yas — yas,’’ responded the advocate of 
liberty, ^hhat may be ; but I’m a free man. 
I can vote as it suits me [which no one 
denied]. I generally make out to do so.” 

Which he did. No office seeker ever 
dealt with tougher material. He was an 
impregnable rock wall. His voting priv- 
ileges were his own, subservient to no law 
of politics, to no meddlesome questioner. 
Glendower never knew how, or for whom, 
Jacob Hays ever voted. 

His religious views were akin to his 
limited ideas of men and things. “It all 
amounts to the same thing, I reckon,” 
was his sweeping comment. But what 
that “thing” with all its infinite possibil- 
ities was he did not attempt to define. 
The common ground of doctrinal argu- 
ment disputed for at the village store ex- 
plained no quality of hope or faith. 


3 ^ 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


Aside from crops, the weather, religion, 
or politics, there was one subject of vital 
interest to be broached, the introduction 
of which, Mr. Stanley discovered, was a 
signal of departure. There was a pause, 
during which the stiff hat was lifted slow- 
ly and inspected. Jacob Hays raised his 
dull blue eyes with an anxious, inquiring 
look. 'Tdl dow now, ye think that boy o’ 
mine is a putty peart chap, bein’ its him ?” 
With the usual satisfactory answer, Jacob 
Hays bade them “Good evenin’ ” in a 
glow of neighborly warmth, reiterating 
the parting formula, “Come over — come 
over,” and the low, spare figure disap- 
peared in the gloom, carrying his stout 
staff well forward and leaving a glim- 
mering of white socks and white home- 
made suspenders under the low-hanging 
beeches. 


CHAPTER IL 


N OW that Philip, the ^^prodigy^’ of 
the Hays household, was nearing 
his eighteenth year, the neighbors 
were naturally expectant. The question 
so long discussed as to what the father 
lowed to do with him,’’ was put plain- 
ly to Jacob Hays. That worthy answered 
decisively and characteristically : ‘'He’ll 
make his way, I reckon. I made mine.” 

So they who knew the man never hoped 
to see one string of his pocketbook loos- 
ened, however fond his pride. In that re- 
gard Philip alone must decide his future. 

To all most concerned in the lad it was 
agreed that a pretty good farmer would 
be “spoiled” when he left the field to fol- 
low a profession. His growth was but 
the natural outcome of what was born in 
the blood and bred in the bone. From the 
time that his boyish head had reached 

f39) 


40 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


the plow handles he had trod the furrows 
steadily, and had learned as early that 
hours of bodily labor and hours of study 
were quite apart each from the other. 

That Philip was something ^'over and 
above ordinary,’’ Glendower cautiously 
admitted, though judging from a nega- 
tive standpoint. He did not fish or swim 
or play as other boys. Neither had he 
absorbed the vices of even the average 
lad. He did not frequent the village store 
(which omission was good-naturedly 
overlooked) nor waste time or money. 
Positively, Philip was industrious, moral- 
ly upright, and remarkably studious. 
Glendower, all things considered, stood 
ready to father the boy, or rather to as- 
sume the relationship of godfather to the 
future ‘^celebrity.” Every community 
should furnish one great man — why not 
Glendower ? 

To his mother, doubtless, Philip was 
largely indebted for his love of books. 
Whatever talent she possessed, whether 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


41 


dwarfed or crippled under adverse cir- 
cumstances, was probably transmitted to 
him through her own blood ; or perchance 
through her tireless teachings and ambi- 
tious promptings she had instilled into 
him a love of learning, a yearning for 
knowledge, which her own starved mind 
had never enjoyed. 

Abilene Hays was a quiet woman, giv- 
en to few words and fewer expressions; 
yet more than once she had given her con- 
fident assurance that her son would be a 
great man some day, a scholar of note, an 
intellectual power in the land; her own 
confused ideas of greatness giving no 
clearly defined plan of his expected career. 
For this end she labored with unceasing 
persistence. Her little sacrifices were un- 
counted. When Philip reached the rules 
of syntax, she laid aside her one luxury 
and consigned to shelves of oblivion the 
back-numbered files of her' pleasant pe- 
riodicals. From the shutterless east win- 
dow the candle burned steadily. Night 


42 


THAT BOY O* MINE. 


after night mother and son studied to- 
gether. 

Unfortunately the mother’s vague, 
though pleasing, prophecies fell upon 
willing ears. Though given under varied 
expressions, Philip had fed upon them 
since early boyhood. Praise was sweet 
to his mental palate. Flattery was a stim- 
ulant. The idea of his incoming great- 
ness had become a part of his daily edu- 
cation. Great he would be — must be. 
His eager, ardent soul made haste to be 
great. His mother’s efforts in his be- 
half were only equaled by his own deter- 
mination to succeed. 

There was a mutual sympathy between 
the two — an understanding that needed 
no questioning. Indeed, many of Phil- 
ip’s mental and physical features were 
striking reproductions of his mother. 
Like her, he longed to learn and know 
and understand the treasured stores of 
knowledge; and like his mother, he had 
the prominent forehead and deep-set eyes, 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


43 


with hair slightly curling. Yet withal he 
possessed in a marked degree that eccen- 
tricity of manner and the stubborn will 
which characterized his father; that, with 
all his ambitions, stamped him a Hays. 
Truly, Philip’s was a complex inherit- 
ance. 

Jacob Hays believed in, if he did not 
understand, his son’s mental endowments. 
He was clever in books — something ‘^over 
and above ordinary,” according to Glen- 
dower. Philip was to be a scholar. The 
thought was pleasing to the father ; it had 
grown on him since the boy’s infancy. 
It never occurred to Jacob Hays that his 
son should be anything less than great. 
It was probably this comfortable hope 
which insured the peace of the ‘Tappiest 
home in Happy Hollow.” Books were 
mysteries. But because they contained 
knowledge, and knowledge was ''power,” 
the father’s expectations were large. On 
summer evenings he was wont to tune his 
fiddle leisurely on the wide banistered 


44 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


porch, while from the sitting room within 
mother and son bent over the study table 
with its one dim light. Many a curious 
glance he bestowed upon them as they 
labored together, and many a hope found 
harbor in his heart as that candlelight 
fell slantingly from the open window. 

Philip would be the first scholar in the 
Hays family, and he was a true Hays — 
that boy of his. This was an established 
household fact, provided the mother’s 
smiling, inscrutable eyes were disregard- 
ed. He would be distinguished, of course 
— he had the Hays grit in him. He would 
have a fair share of the world’s honor, 
and some honest gains beside. He would 
make his own way certainly. Was there 
ever a Hays who did not ? 

The father’s hopes were high. Pride in 
his son began to overbalance prudence. 
The ^^peart chap” was heard no more. 
Its identity was lost in the proud possess- 
ive ‘hhat boy o’ mine.” 

At the White House, also, Philip was 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


45 


familiarly known by that fond phrase 
which spent its sweetness on the father’s 
lips — ''that boy o’ mine.” In his early 
childhood he had timed his visits there to 
the stated and somewhat formal calls of 
his mother. It was on one of these oc- 
casions that he fortunately secured the 
patronage of the Stanley household. 

When the mother, smiling behind her 
busy needles, urged him to ‘'say” his ge- 
ography to Miss Theo, Philip started to 
his feet with some of his father’s abrupt- 
ness, and held up before his surprised lis- 
teners the outlines of continents, coun- 
tries, states, their zones, parallels, their 
rivers, lakes, and mountains, with almost 
painful accuracy, yet with such a knowl- 
edge of geography, physical and local, 
that he laid before them, as it were, the 
world in a nutshell. He seated himself, 
flushed, eager, smiling, the joy of learn- 
ing shining in his luminous eyes. 

"Wonderful !” said Miss Theodora 
slowly. 


46 


THAT BOY O* MINE. 


Mr. Stanley adjusted his glasses, look- 
ing over the boy curiously. 

‘^Come, Millicent, here’s a chance for 
you. Give him books to read — let the boy 
have books. Mayhap you have found 
your embryo genius. Your son is re- 
markably bright, madam,” he said, turn- 
ing to the mother, with his hand on Phil- 
ip’s curls; while the flush of pride deep- 
ened on Abilene’s comely cheek, and the 
tremulous shimmer of her knitting nee- 
dles told of her quick-beating heart. 

Philip needed no further encourage- 
ment. He found abundant access to the 
well-stored but rather old-fashioned libra- 
ry at the White House, and he was not 
slow to avail himself of the privilege. 
He appeared at intervals, bringing his 
well-conned books and returning with a 
new supply. 

Mr. Stanley, who kindly questioned or 
instructed him, found that no book was 
returned without a surprising knowledge 
of its contents. He absorbed a book with 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


47 


an eagerness and greed that knew no sur- 
feit, and he lay hold upon its meaning with 
wonderful clearness and accuracy. 

With the opening of the White House 
doors, Philip had stepped into a new 
world. Here was food for his hungry 
mind, intellectual companionship hitherto 
undreamed of, and intellectual stimulus 
which he had never before known. 

Not much of the village store parlance 
after this. But it must be admitted that 
he took a curious pleasure in airing his 
knowledge at the White House. It was 
something novel to him to measure mind 
with mind and come off victor, as he often 
did in the matter of correct quotations or 
statistics. He took a pride in outstrip- 
ping Millicent, and his self-assertive man- 
ner was anything but consoling to her. 
Philip truly was spoiled, tutored as he 
had been through the boasting fondness 
of an overwise mother. 

Millicent, in her unselfish heart, could 
easily forgive what she considered his 


48 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


overweening vanity when she remem- 
bered his wonderful strength of mind. 
His terms at the village school were only 
the few short weeks spared from the fields 
in winter. Yet he easily outdistanced ev- 
ery pupil in his class, and put the teacher 
himself on his mettle. Knowledge to 
Philip, perhaps, was not conceit. 

It was his thoroughness, after all, 
which secured him his standing ground. 
After a six weeks’ study of ancient Rome, 
he distinguished himself at the White 
House by giving minutely the history of 
that wonderful city, the different forms 
of government and offices of the people 
with Gibbon-like strength and clearness. 
Here it was that Millicent, though a year 
his junior, decided to ‘"adopt” him, or 
rather she aspired to the modest ambition 
of being known as the future patroness 
of this future “celebrity.” 

In this way the years crept by. Sum- 
mer and winter a light shone steadily 
from the shutterless east window of the 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


49 


Hay.s cottage. Though the tallow can- 
dle had been replaced with a kerosene 
lamp by the father’s careful hands, winter 
and summer mother and son studied to- 
gether through the spare hours they called 
their own. If the boy had need of a new 
book, the mother made haste, with her 
own earnings, to secure it. 

So the work progressed. Book after 
book found its way from the Stanley li- 
brary to the little house opposite. Night 
after night the light shone with a clearer 
luster after the screechy notes of Jacob 
Hays’s fiddle had subsided into the silence 
that betokened his early bedtime. 

Mr. Stanley felt an increasing interest 
in the eccentric but intellectual member 
of the Hays household. Elementary 
studies were soon disposed of. Histories, 
ancient and modern, were read and digest- 
ed with a rapidity that surprised his pa- 
tron. Questions, algebraic or geometric, 
were but the simple pastimes of a child 
with its toys. 

4 


50 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


Philip was fond of the Why and 
Wherefore. In the realms of science he 
found, as he thought, his native element. 
With a grasp of mind truly astonishing, 
he struggled and persevered with the ele- 
ments of philosophy ; he pored over chem- 
istry and physics ; he delved into geology ; 
but whether of logic or political economy 
or higher metaphysics, he evinced the 
same insatiate greed. 

With a persistent determination to suc- 
ceed, he took up the study of languages; 
and though there was no six weeks’ vic- 
tory here, he was in a short time, with the 
aid of his kind instructor, reading Virgil 
and Xenophon in a whimsical style of his 
own, and stubbornly adhering to an ec- 
centric pronunciation, but reading never- 
theless with the ease of a finished scholar. 

Mr. Stanley was puzzled. Here was a 
youth with a grasp of mind far above his 
fellows, who for years had been in close 
company with writers of different ages, 
who held familiar intercourse with great 


THAT BOY MINE. 


51 

thoughts of great men; and yet, though 
verging into manhood, crammed to full- 
ness with learning, he made no practical 
use of it. He held still a negative posi- 
tion with no definite purpose, no system 
in study. 

Mr. Stanley did not consider that the 
boy was already at school in a refined and 
cultured atmosphere; that he was daily 
gathering intellectual fiber for future de- 
velopments. But his ambitions — what 
were they? To such questions Philip, 
with the reticence common to the village, 
made the usual unsatisfactory and laconic 
response. 

Mr. Stanley, to whom a book and its 
writer were worthy of his delicate and 
fine deference, concluded at last, with a 
sore disappointment, that this village 
youth lacked the virtue of reverence. 
There seemed to be with him no answer 
of soul to soul, only a rude grasping of 
ideas. Thoughts that were but the slow 
birth of ages he took upon a careless 


52 


THAT BOY MINE. 


tongue, and stepped with a confident as- 
surance where the philosopher feared to 
tread. Philip was a rude discoverer, not 
an inventive genius; a bold and daring 
conqueror, holding in his grasp the prod- 
ucts of lofty minds handling these noble 
captives with the coarse touch of a Van- 
dal. 

Mr. Stanley, who was no reader of hu- 
man nature, felt that such a conclusion 
was premature and uncharitable. He was 
conscious at times of a longing gaze across 
his study table, with an expression of pain 
or despair, which disconcerted the well- 
poised scholar. Truly Philip was a prob- 
lem. But he would not condemn the lad. 
Why not test the mind of the man? Sci- 
ence was his pet study — could he beget an 
idea or formulate a theory? 

Mr. Stanley begged the favor of a 
treatise on a given subject. And here his 
wavering faith was startled into life 
again. After some days of study, Philip 
presented a carefully prepared paper, no- 


THAT BOY MINE. 


53 


ticeable for its neat arrangement and 
careful English, its original thought and 
exhaustive research showing a depth of 
feeling surprising in a youth. The mys- 
tery was slowly revealed to Mr. Stanley. 
To his delicate discernment, Philip was 
bound by the barrier of caste. His eccen- 
tricities, his nonchalant manner were but 
repressions of his finer sentiments. He 
was a boy of marked talent, and there 
was a soul in him. 

Philip must be rescued from the nar- 
row lines of a scraping industry which 
sank the soul of the village lad in the 
struggle for the body’s maintenance. His 
speech must be refined, his ambitions ele- 
vated. 

Mr. Stanley appealed to Millicent, his 
ardent colaborer, with her more subtle 
and delicate sympathy, to lead this erratic 
student from the fields of science to the 
pleasure grounds of classic literature; or, 
better still, to put him in touch with the 
world which lay before him as an open 


54 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


book, in sympathy with its beauty, its 
goodness, or even its pain. It was a min- 
istry diviner far that she sought to show 
him — ^behind the infinite grace of nature 
the majesty of the Creator, the Father’s 
love, and the beauty of things heavenly. 

That one summer Philip long remem- 
bered as a revel, not an idyl, of intellec- 
tual ease and pleasure — a feast of good 
things. For hours under the shady 
beeches he and his gentle teacher read 
or studied; for hours on the long vine- 
wreathed gallery of the White House they 
held converse over song and story, unre- 
strained and unmolested; and never did 
girl a braver work, though she often 
lacked wisdom or perhaps a graver coun- 
sel. 

However, Philip strode into the world 
of letters like a living embodiment of 
plagiarism, making wholesale slaughter of 
polished sentences and rhythmic verse. 
Yet Millicent found herself overawed by 
his powerful grasp of mind. He de- 



For hours under the shady beeches he and his 
gentle teacher read or studied. 

( 55 ) 



THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


56 

claimed for hours the pet productions of 
Burke, Hume, or Macaulay; of Milton, 
Lamb, or Bacon. He told off yards of 
Shakespearean or Homeric verse. Milli- 
cent, who listened intently, caught no in- 
tonation of tenderness or joy or pain. A 
triumph of mind over matter, he protest- 
ed ; nothing more. 

‘Thilip, where is your soul?” she asked 
startlingly one day; and then again that 
look of pain swept across his face, that 
appealing expression from his gray eyes 
which always won her instant pity and 
forgiveness. 

She read to him patiently in simpler 
verse and strove to interpret to his un- 
derstanding its beauty of sentiment and 
expression. She explained to him that 
great men did not ignore but loved the 
little things of God, and pointed out the 
harebell in Scott’s musical verse, Burns’s 
mountain daisy, Wordsworth’s daffodil, 
and Bryant’s ‘‘fringed gentian.” She 
called his attention to the noble expres- 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


57 


sion and dainty dress of Ruskin’s Eng- 
lish. She culled him choice flowers from 
the delectable gardens of poesy, but be- 
yond his absorbed attention she gained 
no response. 

wish I had your expression, Milli- 
cent,’’ he remarked quietly one day. 

Millicent was sorely puzzled. Beyond 
a fitter way of robing his thoughts than 
his native Glendower speech, there was 
only that look of vague unrest. 

Millicent counted her labor lost. Was 
there no green of earth for Philip, no 
blue of sky? With his magnificent mind 
could there be a moral shallowness in his 
nature? Was he as a ragged mendicant, 
calling off his wares of foreign manufac- 
ture, poor and unlearned ? 

Astronomy was one of his favorite 
studies; yet he insisted that the science 
was a broad field for measuring distances, 
a triumph of mathematics. He was fond 
of theorizing. He talked long and often 
of clouds, storms, vapors; of earth, fire, 


58 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


water, air. Boldly he talked of the phe- 
nomena of nature; of mysteries explored 
and revealed ; of the stars in their courses. 
Ah! — and Millicent’s cheek blushed — did 
Philip forget that the philosopher stands 
dumb before the coloring of a flower ? 


CHAPTER III. 


M r. STANLEY, in some dismay, 
sought the little brown cottage op- 
posite, and laid before Jacob 
Hays the imperative necessity of college 
training and a university course for 
Philip. He needed lessons from the 
world and friction with minds of living 
men. He needed to learn his own wants. 
His needs were great and urgent. But 
here Jacob Hays laid his quietus. His 
son's success had become a part of his 
existence. To deprive him of that hope 
upon which he had fed would mean to the 
father his physical collapse. But to in- 
vest his savings into an unsolved prob- 
lem was an unwise proceeding, wholly 
unbusinesslike and not to be considered. 

‘'Let that boy o' mine make his way," 
he answered grimly. ‘T made mine." 

( 59 ) 


6o 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


Millicent appealed to her charge in 
strong sympathy. 

“You have means of your own, Philip,’’ 
she said, referring to a snug sum in bank 
placed there in his name by his mother. 

But Philip, true to his rearing, an- 
swered crushingly: “Pm not such a fool 
as that, I hope, Millicent.” He consoled 
her, however. College was a certainty. 
Plis v/ill was to go. He would find the 
way somehow. 

Millicent suggested Glendower school. 
Pie could teach school certainly; but Glen- 
dower was an uncertain benefactor. He 
should not relish the ill will of the village. 
Still the stepping-stone was worth con- 
sidering. After some hestitation he made 
application for the district school, and 
Glendower put on spectacles to read an 
excellent certificate which Philip present- 
ed with pardonable pride. 

“Let the boy have his chance,” said 
Glendower generously, voting him the vil- 
lage school. 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


6i 


And now Philip’s real difficulties began. 
The boy had his chance ; but unfortunate- 
ly for him he put the confidence of his 
neighbors to a severe test. His youth and 
inexperience were against him. His 
somewhat eccentric ruling laid him open 
to criticism. Glendower was not slow to 
pick a flaw in the methods of the stripling 
schoolmaster. Philip was a son of the 
village by nature and by grace; the right 
of correction was a valid claim. 

Philip himself was never conscious of 
a more earnest endeavor on his part. But 
he knew not a child. His own secluded 
life gave him little knowledge of children’s 
ways. A boy’s predilection for toads and 
marbles, a girl’s fondness for chewing 
gum or charm buttons, he could not un- 
derstand. He began to realize his sad 
mistake that he had not fished or played 
or swum as other boys. He may have 
missed the supreme joy of childhood, but 
the unconcern of the village children for 
books or learning was to Philip but little 


62 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


less than disgusting. Their whole-souled 
ardor for romps and games in lieu of 
studious application meant to him a con- 
temptible lack of ambition. Stupidity to 
him was intolerable. His own inquiring 
intellect found it tedious waiting beside 
the slow evolution of thought, the strug- 
gling intelligence of a child’s brain. His 
efforts as a pedagogue, therefore, were 
a failure. He realized it slowly — for his 
heart was in the work — by his dwindling 
classes. There were admonitory raps 
from Glendower. Rumors were in the air. 
A whisper had its stage effect in that 
gossipy glen. Rigid discipline was de- 
nounced. Philip’s rather heavy speeches 
— containing a wonderfully accurate 
knowledge of book lore for all that, had 
Glendower listened — were disapproved of ; 
his patrons did not appreciate the daily 
resurrection of dead languages. 

Dissatisfaction was rife. Philip’s 
school ended prematurely, ingloriously. 
Glendower’s blunt advice was a sugges- 


THAT BCY O' MINE. 63 

tion that he turn again to the plow han- 
dles. Moreover, the open court of justice 
had ‘'taken his measure.'’ The remorse- 
less sentence was laid upon him, to all in- 
tents, as irrevocable as a Medo-Persian 
law, and couched in terms of strongest 
contempt: “Philip Hays was a ‘bookish 
fool.' " 

“O, that boy !" groaned Millicent in real 
distress. 

Glendower had repudiated the “celeb- 
rity" of the village. 

The little brown cottage, known as the 
“happiest home in Happy Hollow," wore 
a deserted look. The east window was 
darkened. Still Abilene Hays hung out 
her weekly washings and spun her soft 
white yarn, working harder each day, 
with a far-away look in her eyes, as if her 
soul had wandered away and left her body 
in servitude and bonds. Jacob Hays too 
went about silently, bending his back to 
many an added burden. The screechy 


64 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


notes of his fiddle had ceased to challenge 
the voices of the night. A strange care 
sat upon him — he who was unused to dis- 
quieting thoughts. He felt keenly the sen- 
tence, just or unjust, which was laid upon 
his son; but the father’s silence was non- 
committal. His visits to the village store, 
twice daily, were regularly made — the 
habit was strong — but the old boasting 
expression, ‘hhat boy o’ mine,” was sel- 
dom heard. At the White House, which 
was now less frequently visited, there was 
a note of real anxiety in the cautious in- 
quiry : “Don’t ye think now, for a farmer’s 
chap, that book learnin’ might be carried 
a leetle too for ?” 

Philip, too, appeared at longer intervals 
at the Stanley home. There was then 
something still of the startling emphasis 
of his father in his abrupt greetings; but 
there was an ominous change in his man- 
ner, which faithful Millicent welcomed as 
a forerunner of the crisis in his career. 
Philip was fitful, moody. He was taci- 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 65 

turn, gloomy, or at times brilliant, flighty, 
obscure. He was mysterious. 

Millicent was at length sorely discom- 
fited. Philip was a most unreal being. 
She had failed to find the true man, and 
her failure seemed ignominiously small. 
She was beginning to feel the force of her 
sister’s prophecy — she had need of wis- 
dom herself. She was relieved some 
months later when he started for L — Uni- 
versity, Tennessee. Though womanlike, 
she quaked inwardly over his cheap black 
clothes, his poor attempt at gentlemanly 
dress. But alas for Millicent! she had 
only a short respite from anxious respon- 
sibility. 

The chill December days passed slow- 
ly. The hills and fields were shrouded in 
snow. Glendower lay asleep. A winter’s 
sun shone slantingly in Happy Hollow. 
One clear, cold day a tall, professional- 
looking man, with grip and umbrella, 
passed down the village street. There 
was a certain weariness in his stride, but 
5 


66 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


Glendower awoke and winked solemnly as 
Philip Hays quietly announced the abrupt 
close of his college course. After this the 
village wiseacres dozed again sleepily, 
with one eye open to the daily doings of 
this erratic son. 

''Is there a stranger in the village?’’ 
inquired Miss Theodora, peering under 
the snow-ladened beeches to the village 
street, where she caught occasional 
glimpses of Philip, who was growing tall 
and hardly recognizable in his profession- 
al-looking clothes. 

Millicent, who was at home for the 
Christmas holidays, flushed suddenly. 

"He is no stranger, Theo; only Philip.” 
She added distrustfully : "He has quit L — 
University.” 

"Millicent, this is getting serious,” said 
Miss Theodora in dismay. 

"O, advise me, help me!” cried Milli- 
cent desperately. I have made a misera- 
ble failure when I meant so well, Theo, 
I meant so well. He needs — I know 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


67 


not what he needs. Cannot you take 
him in charge? Will you not? Come, 
Theo!^’ 

It was true that Miss Theodora had al- 
ways commanded a certain deference 
from Philip, apart from the other mem- 
bers of the household. They conversed 
chiefly on farming interests in general, or 
sowing or reaping in detail. Philip was 
an intelligent farmer and showed a com- 
prehensive knowledge of agriculture that 
was unmistakable. Here his practical 
ability was admirable, as every one knew. 
If only Theo, always busy over household 
matters, had time to help and advise this 
truant charge ! 

Millicent was resolved, however, to 
bear no more with Philip’s oddities. She 
would try a little discipline. She nerved 
herself to a severe and uncompromising 
demeanor. He made a tardy appearance 
at the White House. His step sounded 
familiarly on Millicent’s ear. She greet- 
ed him coldly. 


68 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


Philip returned her greeting with a 
colder air, and took his seat with a man- 
ner so constrained that Millicent was mys- 
tified. A new whim indeed for Philip, she 
thought, distractedly. She forgot her dis- 
cipline. 

'The plot thickens,'' she whispered hys- 
terically to Miss Theodora. 

Philip held his hat awkwardly. He 
made labored efforts at formal and polite 
conversation. There was much stilted 
phrasing. 

"We are simple folk here, Philip," ob- 
served Millicent quietly. "Tell us about 
your school." 

Philip flushed hotly. "I found a stuck- 
up lot there — that's all," he replied, de- 
scending suddenly from his stilts and 
lapsing into Glendower dialect. He was 
plainly averse to giving his college ex- 
perience. He grew restless, noting the 
cold disfavor in the face of his old friend. 
He turned instinctively to Miss Theo- 
dora. He drew from his pocket a small 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


69 

book in yellow paper covering. ^Tretty 
good book, that!’’ he said suddenly, put- 
ting it into her hands in a deprecatory 
way. 

Miss Theodora turned the leaves gin- 
gerly, reading the several headings : 
‘'Rules of Social Etiquette,” “The Art of 
Conversation,” “Guide to Letter Writ- 
ing,” etc. A great pity surged through 
her heart. No need to tell her why he 
had quitted the university. This obscure 
village youth had found himself at a sore 
disadvantage abroad — a fit subject indeed 
for the pitiless guying of his fellow-stu- 
dents. He must have suffered. How pa- 
thetic this silent acknowledgment of his 
deficiencies! She raised her clear eyes, 
full of profound sympathy, to his. To 
her surprise, Philip’s face was glowing 
in a sudden heat of passion. 

“You don’t have to read such books, nor 
you, Millicent, nor Mr. Stanley, sir,” ex- 
claimed Philip hotly. “Manners were 
born in you from away back. Do you 


7 © THAT BOY O’ MINE. 

think in a hundred years I could talk and 
act like that?’’ holding up the yellow 
book. '‘Vm a Hays, I tell you, and all the 
colleges in the world can’t make me any- 
thing else. They called me ^homespun’ up 
yonder at school. Come now, Millicent, 
how’s that for your Greek scholar?” he 
said derisively, turning from her pleading 
face. ^'Did you ever know a Hays to be 
anything? Not the Glendower branch of 
’em, at any rate. I’ve traced the whole lot 
of ’em back to nowhere, and all they ever 
knew or cared for was to skimp and save 
and dig for the dollar.” 

^^You are what you make yourself, 
Philip. And your father is a very worthy 
man,” said Miss Theodora gravely. 

''O, he’s worthy enough in his way, I 
reckon. The whole set of ’em are wor- 
thy, if being honest and industrious will 
make it up. They all know how to make 
money, and keep it too. A narrow-mind- 
ed lot they are. He wants me to farm 
now. I rather think [Philip looked 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


7 ^ 


down contemptuously on his coarse shoes 
and rough, black clothes] Til teach him 
a thing or two before I conclude to farm 
his little patch of ground/' 

'‘You are very unlike yourself to-night, 
Philip. Intelligent farming is profitable 
and honorable. Your father's advice is 
well meant. You remember that you have 
tried him sorely of late." 

Philip looked up quickly. "The old 
man and me" — 

^Thilipr 

Philip steadied himself. He passed his 
hand over his face with a weary gesture, 
and met her indignant look unflinch- 
ingly. 

"Excuse me. My father and I are not 
on good terms just now." 

And so it was. There was a decided 
change in the little household across the 
way. It was no longer called the happiest 
in Happy Hollow. Jacob Hays was silent 
and morose. During his spasmodic visits 
at the White House he sat in grim, Quak^ 


72 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


erish attitude, his worn hat pulled over 
his brow, answering his host’s rather la- 
bored questions with an absent ''Yas — 
yas.” If the old familiar phrase ^hhat boy 
o’ mine” unwittingly slipped his lips, the 
tone of contempt was unmistakable. He 
began to absent himself from the village, 
remaining so silent over the nature of 
these errands that Glendower wondered. 
There was once a sudden trip to Nash- 
ville, after which he was found at the 
White House with an unsteady gait and 
a loosened tongue. 

^T’m a free man, I tell you — a free man. 
This is a free kuntry — a land o’ liberty — 
a — land — o’ lib-berty!” He roused him- 
self again to vehement speech : 'That boy 
o’ mine ; I tell you that boy o’ mine’s — a — 
bookish — fool.” 

"Ah ! my friend, liberty has played you 
a sad trick at last,” said Mr. Stanley. 

Abilene Hays, too, was changed — so 
sadly changed that she weakened at her 
work and the roses left her cheeks. The 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


73 


doctor’s buggy was seen twice a week at 
her door. But whether hope ruled in her 
heart for her son or despair made deso- 
late the home, Glendower never knew. 
The darkened east window told no tales. 


CHAPTER IV. 


I T was during this unhappy trend of af- 
fairs that Mr. Stanley had an inter- 
view with Jacob Hays which threat- 
ened to unsettle their neighborly relations. 
One evening in the pale glow of an early 
twilight Jacob Hays made his way to the 
front gallery of the White House. The 
thumping of his stick was unusually star- 
tling and emphatic. Without his custom- 
ary greeting, he took a proffered seat and 
leaned his head wearily on his staff. 

'Well, old friend,” said Mr. Stanley 
kindly, "how is it with the boy? You 
wish to see me about him ?” 

Jacob Hays’s dull eyes shone with a 
pale gleam of anger. A harsh, set look 
gathered about his square jaw. His fin- 
gers closed tightly over his stick. 

"Ye call it learning do ye — posting 
about and stayin’ nowhere, scatterin’ his 
( 74 ) 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


75 


foors talk fur an’ wide? Books, books! 
it’s been all these years payin’ out solid 
money fur wuthless trash! A 'bookish 
fool,’ is he? I’ll ’low now he don’t know 
a potato hill from a corn furrer. A putty 
fair fool ye’ve made of him with your book 
learnin’ — a p-u-t-ty fair fool.” 

"Give your son his due, neighbor” — 

"I’ll own no fool for a son,” answered 
Jacob Hays contemptuously. "He’s no 
boy o’ mine.” 

Mr. Stanley continued : "Philip has 
perverted his talents to some extent; but, 
hampered as he has been, I wonder at his 
persistence. He is laboring against tre- 
mendous odds. Let me speak plainly, 
Jacob. Your own idea of a dollar and its 
worth — the only lesson you ever taught 
him — has been his greatest drawback. 
Your own peculiarities, nurtured within 
him, fetter his splendid mind. He cannot 
hold his own — poor boy !” 

"I’ve about managed to hold my own — 
so far.” 


76 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


SO. And your training or blood 
— call it what you will — has done as much 
for Philip. Yet these books that you con- 
demn, Jacob, have been his friends, and 
better company by far than Glendower 
has ever offered. Mark me now! Philip 
will never be an ordinary man. Pie will 
yet honor the name of Hays.’’ 

‘‘He’s made his name plain enough,” 
said the father bitterly. 

Mr. Stanley paced the gallery in trou- 
bled thought. It was evident that Phil- 
ip’s mistakes, or fruitless ambitions, were 
laid at the door of the White House. And 
truly for the boy’s success in life some 
responsibility rested there. His was a 
sanguine temperament; perhaps he had 
been unwisely praised. One’s hopes were 
apt to catch fire from Millicent’s inflam- 
mable ardor. 

Something must be done at once for the 
peace of the Hays household — anything 
except to sacrifice the boy. Mr. Stanley 
leaned over the silent figure, laying his 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


77 


hand on the bent shoulder. ‘What are 
you willing to do, Jacob? Come, old 
friend,’’ he said encouragingly, ‘‘give your 
son a chance.” 

“He’s had his chance, and lost it.” 

“Give him another.” 

“I can do that, too,” answered Jacob 
Hays sullenly. It galled his spirit to 
appeal to Mr. Stanley for aid (he had 
a certain pride of his own), but to no one 
else could the father go whose word had 
weight with Philip. He continued slowly : 
“I can sell my place [he gazed anxious- 
ly across the street, lingeringly over the 
thirty well-kept acres] at a fair figger. 
I can buy that Fairfield farm — big enough 
to suit him, I reckon — at a bargain, and 
pay for it — every dollar down.” 

“Jacob, educate your son.” 

“The place is an extry bargain,” the old 
man persisted, ignoring the interruption. 
“Jest picked up, ye might say, by payin’ 
the mortgage on it” — 

“But I say, educate that boy, Jacob.” 


78 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


^Tut him to work, / say,’’ he answered 
sharply, thumping his stick on the floor. 

''Educate him,” reiterated Mr. Stanley. 

Jacob Hays turned uneasily in his chair. 
Before the mysterious power of that knowl- 
edge which bore the wisdom of Mr. Stan- 
ley’s world the father’s plans, like un- 
steady props, were slipping from him. 
He continued weakly: ^^Seems like that 
place might satisfy any man. Phil could 
set on his front porch and farm that dirt.” 

''What is ease to an ambitious man, 
Jacob? What Philip wants is an active 
life — intellectual exercise, something to 
pull forward to. The idle are most un- 
happy.” 

"Pll ’low now we could have him at 
home, leastwise. We’re gettin’ old — ^his 
mother and me.” 

The father’s heart, with a rebound of 
nature, was now calling loudly for his 
son. It was a time of temptation, while 
the man was weak — a dangerous selfish- 
ness which was forgetting former ambi- 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


79 


tions. At this crucial moment he would 
gladly have effected a compromise be- 
tween the world and his son. 

Mr. Stanley listened with a pained in- 
terest. Something in the droop of the 
bent shoulders touched him sorely. The 
old man’s heart, in spite of his recent 
avowal, was ‘Tound up in the lad.” Noth- 
ing else could have brought him to the 
sacrifice of his life — the sale of the little 
brown cottage. 

'T know the place well, Jacob. Fair- 
field plantation is a noble possession. As 
you say, Philip’ could be a gentleman 
farmer there. But listen to me: It is the 
boy himself that concerns you now, not 
his habitation. He must either push on 
or fail. Which shall it be — Philip Hays, 
a Glendower crank, or Philip Preston 
Hays, a professional man and a scholar? 
It is in him, if you will believe me, to be 
that. Buy the plantation for yourself. 
Farm it yourself; you will thrive on it, 
and it’s a step up in the world for you. 


So 


THAT BOY 0' MINE. 


But your son — send him back to col- 
lege." 

'What has education done for him?" 
was again the bitter inquiry. 

"Much every way. It will do more. 
Trust me again, Jacob; I mean you well." 

Jacob Hays arose slowly, grasping his 
stick with a trembling hand. "Aye, hedl 
go; if he has a mind to go, he will." 

And the old man passed out under the 
beeches with a halting step. The sole 
prop which sustained him now was his 
reliance upon Mr. Stanley’s word, which 
had never given cause for doubt. 

With the New Year Millicent prepared 
for her return to school. She grieved sin- 
cerely over Philip’s sudden lack of nerve, 
or perseverance, which was as surprising 
to her as it was disappointing. She was 
heavy of heart over what she considered 
was the sudden collapse of her great un- 
dertaking. She too was pained to think 
that she herself was not without fault in 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


Si 


certain matters. She might have saved 
him these late humiliations had she been 
less lenient and more practical. She had 
shown a deplorable lack of wisdom and 
discernment. Theo would have done 
much better. She was always wise. As 
Millicent bade her sister good-by there 
was a break of tears in her tender voice. 

^Theo, dear, Philip has been an unruly 
child’’— 

^What, little godmother? Tears? 
Why, I was never so hopeful of Philip as 
now. Leave him to me,” she said cheer- 
fully; and Millicent went away com- 
forted. A few days after her departure, 
as Miss Theodora expected, Philip called 
upon her. She received him in her bright 
sitting room. He sat by the fire, silent, 
thoughtful ; his hands deep in his trousers 
pockets, a look of care on his face, with 
a certain weariness about the eyes. Miss 
Theodora, who watched him with pro- 
found sympathy, chatted pleasantly, with 
a friendly interest in her tones. He made 
6 


t 




''Miss Theo, what a fool I have beenT 


THAT BOY 0' MINE. 


83 


responses absently, looking up at length 
with a long sigh : “Miss Theo, what a fool 
I have been!’’ 

“I am relieved to hear you say so, 
Philip.” 

She met his inquiring look with her 
clear, direct glance. “I mean that a man ' 
should study himself early in life; it is a 
good beginning.” 

Philip, with another long sigh, looked 
again into the fire. 

“Your father thinks of buying Fairfield 
plantation ?” 

“So he says. I hope he may — for him- 
self. He can lease the lands and live with- 
out hardships.” 

“And you?” 

“I shall not be there. I am going back 
to school, to L — University.” 

“Not there!” exclaimed Miss Theo- 
dora involuntarily. 

“Yes, there! No other school can have 
the same meaning to me now as that one. 

I mean to gain back every step I lost there. 


84 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


if I fight for it by inches. I shall compel 
teacher and student to respect me. I shall 
do it all without the help of man. It goes 
without saying that I — shall be worthy 
of the same.’’ 

''Ah, Philip !” said Miss Theodora, with 
shining eyes. "I knew it was in you, boy. 
I knew it; I was sure of it.” 

"Will you help me?” asked Philip hum- 
bly. 

"Indeed I will, if you need it.” 

"Then show me myself.” 

Miss Theodora hesitated. "You will 
find me severe.” 

"Beat me black and blue,” replied Phil- 
ip vehemently. "What are my failings? 
Strip me of praise, if you will, but show 
me what I am.” 

"Since you ask it,” answered Miss The- 
odora slowly, "the scholar, Philip, is mod- 
est. He does not display his gifts.” 

Philip flushed hotly. His hands went 
again into his trousers pockets. 

"Learning is humble. Self-aggran- 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


85 

dizement is a fatal error. The true schol- 
ar loses sight of self in seeking the truth 
he wishes to propagate. His greatness 
follows on and creeps upon him una- 
wares.’^ 

^^Go on.” Philip buried his hot face in 
his hands. 

scholar is a gentleman, of course 
— that is, he is gentle, courteous, kind. 
There is a certain nicety about his person, 
his bearing, his speech. A breach of the 
rules of English grammar is a criminal 
offense.” 

There was a deprecatory wave of his 
hand, but Philip was silent. 

^There is little occasion in life for high- 
flown words or sentiment. Life is sim- 
ple. Duty is plain. He who follows in 
the way is lofty and pure. Then my 
scholar, Philip, is a Christian. To my 
mind there is no true greatness without 
goodness, and no real good in life which 
does not embrace the Christian faith. 
There is a destiny for man beyond this 


86 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


life. Have you ever made a study of the 
Bible, Philip?’^ 

''Only as I was interested in Jewish 
history.’’ 

"No scholar can afford to leave that 
Book out of his library. It is the refer- 
ence book of ages. But look for that di- 
vine and beautiful character who is the 
'Author of our salvation.’ You will find 
Him in spirit or body from Genesis to 
Revelation — the High Priest of all time. 
But when you have truly found Him, 
Philip, you will have found your truer 
self.” 

There was silence. Philip lifted his 
face from his hands. "Do you know. 
Miss Theo, that you have described ''^our 
father?” 

"Yes, but there are many others.” 

"I know one other only — that Greek 
professor at L — University.” 

"Indeed! Tell me about him.” 

"O, there’s nothing to tell in particular, 
except that he was fine — superfine — the 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


87 


very pink of perfection, as I knew him. 
He was always courteous and gentle to 
me. Yet I could never stand or sit in his 
presence. Td give my right arm to be 
like him.’’ 

''You have a splendid will, Philip. 
Why not be like him?” 

"Is there anything in me to be?” asked 
Philip desperately. 

"All you will to be.” 

"Then by all that is worthy I’ll fill his 
chair some day, and fill it well.” 

"O Philip, what joy that would be to 
us! And your mother” — 

"My mother?” said Philip in a low 
tone. "Hasn’t she stood by me, though? 
I’ve been her daily meat since my earliest 
recollection. I am still her soul’s desire, 
in spite of Glendower prophecies. Well, 
she shall have her little victory, if — I — 
live.” 


CHAPTER V. 


M any a weakling lies prone beside 
his ^Tock of offense/’ He is wise 
who makes the obstacle a stepping- 
stone to a higher altitude. But it requires 
some stamina to surmount a difficulty. 
Patience wins often in her long run. 
Moral courage, a sterner virtue, with a 
dominating will as a propelling quality, 
scores many a triumph. Heroic endeav- 
or often wins the day. But the man who 
lifts himself bodily from the common rut 
of usage and strikes out for a new and 
higher life possesses uncommon strength 
of character. It were a far easier matter 
to slip into the groove worn smooth by his 
forefathers. 

The timorous youth shrinks at the out- 
look. The uphill of difficulty and the 
down grade of failure loom ominously in 
the foreground. He is like a child going 
( 88 ) 


THAT BOY 0‘ MINE. 


89 


out into the night, lingering uncertainly 
on the home threshold in the light of the 
home fireside, returning again, and yet 
again, to hold out his hands to its warmth. 
Not so the heart courageous. He does 
not look back, though the light of home 
goes with him — a never-failing inspira- 
tion. 

Philip set his face like a flint. The 
goal of his ambitions was ever before him. 
There was no ^^shadow of turning.’’ His 
experience of the past year was exceed- 
ingly painful to remember. He was cov- 
ered with shame as he thought of his 
weak and arrogant pride, his intense 
egotism, his pompous display of his little 
learning. Miss Theodora’s words had 
sunk deep into his soul. Could he ever 
right about and retrieve himself in the 
eyes of his friends, or even himself? 
There were times when, verging into de- 
spair, he would throw aside his book and 
cover his crimson face with his hands as 


90 


THAT BOY O’ MINE, 


the unutterable shame of his weaknesses 
overwhelmed him. Perhaps he magni- 
fied his failings in his bitter regrets. He 
had been fed from infancy upon praise 
and honeyed prophecies. His first con- 
tact with the world was his rude awak- 
ening. 

Antagonism, however, had stirred and 
put whip to his dormant will. His re- 
solve was now to verify his mother’s 
hopes, his father’s pride, and to requite, 
in some measure, the abundant labors of 
his kind friends at the White House. 
Glendower, too, should pay him tribute 
some day. But what was it that Miss The- 
odora had said about a man’s ambitions 
being noble or ignoble ? O ! could he ever 
be noble or worthy? 

The ofifer of Fairfield plantation, mag- 
nanimous as it was, Philip had steadily 
refused. It would have proven, perhaps, 
a grateful change to him to turn from 
the humiliating failure of his college ven- 
ture to its wide freedom of forest, field, 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


9 


and meadow. This noble plantation, 
which was an instance among the many 
of the stepping up and down of buyer and 
seller of the generations since the Civil 
War, was a veritable refuge of rest and 
peace. 

The prospect was alluring. There 
among its cool, wide spaces roses bloomed 
in sunny gardens. The sunlight, in gold- 
en bars, fell aslant stately elms and shim- 
mered in the green of beech woods. There 
the river murmured, the skies flushed 
and paled at evening, where the stars 
hung, shining. All was peace and re- 
pose. But Philip was not seeking repose. 
There, too, the corn lands mellowed for 
coming crops, meadows clovered for sheep 
and cattle, and the beech woods dropped 
their toothsome stores for fattening 
swine. The plantation was a happy 
speculation, and yielded heavy returns for 
invested time or money. But Philip was 
not seeking pecuniary gain. The man- 
sion itself was an asylum of ease, with 


02 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


its sunny rooms and pillared porticos fa- 
cing the dawn of the mornings, with its 
back galleries overlooking the sunset hills. 
But neither was Philip seeking ease. 

With the coming spring he went his 
way; and his way was a strenuous one. 
He began to prepare for the year’s crop, 
conscious of his father’s watchful but 
unquestioning gaze upon him — conscious, 
too, of Glendower’s surveillance — yet 
working with a resistless energy that sur- 
prised even himself. 

What his thoughts were as he followed 
the long furrows in and out, no one of 
his watchers dreamed. But it seemed to 
Philip afterwards that the most stupen- 
dous struggle of his life was then. It 
was a season of mental strife, a scrutiny 
of self, a conflict of hopes and fears, a 
ferment of soul. The shame of his fail- 
ures at times overwhelmed him, but his 
predominant will triumphed over mental 
disparagement, speeding out into the fu- 
ture with ambitious hopes, and coming 


THAT BOY 0' MINE. 


93 


home again, always and ever, to the sim- 
ple lines of duty marked out by Miss The- 
odora. What was the impulse of duty? 
Was it faith? Was it love? And what 
was love? 

He began to see more clearly his un- 
fortunate mistakes and to comprehend his 
own dullness of vision. The meaning of 
Millicent’s beautiful lessons revealed it- 
self slowly to his growing perceptions, 
toning his eye and ear to the charm of 
nature. He found the rough and fur- 
rowed ground an interesting study. Then 
the tasseling corn, the blossoming mead- 
ows! The sunlight over fields of wheat 
rippling in the wind; clouds of snow in 
the heavens, piled mountain-high over 
seas of blue! All lessons were not of 
books. An insect on the wing — why, its 
hum meant something. 

Millicent had said it was all glorious, 
and the world was beautiful. How had 
he missed so long the sunset’s evening 
glow, or the roseate glory of morning on 


94 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


the hills of Glendower? Had he never 
heard before the whistle of quail in the 
fields, the orchestra of birds in the hills, 
or the symphony of wind-blown leaves? 
Ah, to come out of himself and to see what 
God had made, to hear the music of ani- 
mate and inanimate things ! 

After working hours, Philip applied 
himself to his books with unflagging in- 
terest. His mother, the quiet watcher, 
wondered why he made such an absorb- 
ing study of the Bible, or why he added 
a Greek Testament to his library. She 
pondered ‘'these things in her heart,” and, 
like a mother, asked no questions. Philip 
was much changed, was her constant 
thought. He was more quiet, gentle, self- 
reliant. Many an added task he took 
upon himself to save her wearied steps; 
and his father — why, this was the very 
easiest year of his existence. Philip was 
a good boy. Glendower did not know her 
son. 

As for Jacob Hays, he sat upon his ban- 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


95 


istered front porch and watched the long 
swing of the plow across the thirty-acre 
field. A gleam of pride lingered in his 
face as he noted the harrowing and roll- 
ing, the skillful manipulation of the soil. 
Philip was a born farmer, a true Hays. 
How easily his plow turned the mellow 
earth! There were no panicky horses, 
no broken traces or shivered plowpoints. 
There was a precision about his long, even 
corn rows, a method in his farming, that 
few understood. A masterful boy was 
Philip. 

After his bitter disappointment over 
the inglorious ending of his son’s first 
venture into the world (also his own un- 
steady slip at the White House), Jacob 
Hays had carried himself with a certain 
dignity which won his son’s instant re- 
spect and Glendower’s everlasting regard. 
Pie was seen daily on his way to and from 
the village store, with his stout staff in 
a vSteady hand. There was, with all his 
quiet demeanor, a careful intrenchment 


96 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


behind his family pride that no one dared 
intrude upon. He had made no comment 
when Philip declined the offer of Fair- 
field plantation. So he (the father) sat 
upon his front porch, silent, unquestion- 
ing, biding his time. He knew, too, that 
within the room behind him sat one who 
watched with him — the boy’s mother. 
She had a way of taking off her moist 
glasses, wiping them dry with unsteady 
hands, putting them on again, and look- 
ing out into the field where her son 
worked. There was, too, in Philip’s 
room, the father noticed, a study table 
covered with books, and a study lamp, 
which she kept trimmed and shining. 

Well, he would wait. Time would tell. 
The boy had the bit in his teeth now. 
Yet with what resolute energy and steady 
self-control he held himself in hand ! 
Glendower’s untimely wit fell upon heed- 
less ears. 

It was true that Jacob Hays still eyed 
a book in any shape or cover suspiciously. 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


97 


It was also true that he had denounced 
his son with Glendower's repudiation of 
him. A son a failure was a son lost to 
Jacob Hays. To fail again, after a fair 
trial, meant to his inexorable will either 
a return to the plow or complete disown- 
ership. No unworthy son of the Hays 
family was ever allowed the doorsill of his 
home for a resting place. 

Yet there was no denying it, the rela- 
tionship kept its strong hold upon him. 
Surely he could wait, if waiting were all. 
It were well worth the time and patience 
to wait through years of anxious unrest, 
could he claim again that boy as his own 
and look Glendower in the face once more 
with a father’s pride. 

A ^‘bookish fool” — Jacob Hays shrank 
from the words as from shameful blows. 
There is a peculiar pride or certain dis- 
tinction in merit among farmers or the 
country-bred and born that prevails to a 
greater or less extent in different locali- 
ties. These fixed principles, which are 
7 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


98 

little understood by the world generally, 
rule as immutable laws. 

Truth and honesty, inseparable as they 
are, were well known in Glendower as 
solid and invincible foundation stones of 
character. A man who ''paid his honest 
debts’’ was always respected. Notes or 
securities were seldom given or required. 
A man’s "word” was his "bond.” These 
high attributes of man were looked upon 
as the higher qualities of religion. Oppo- 
site qualities held their proper opposite 
places. 

A sensible man, or a "man of common 
sense,” meant a safe, wise farmer or man 
of business. A "bookish fool,” therefore 
(perhaps a synonym for "crank”), was 
held in contempt. The culprit was unsta- 
ble, without judgment or discretion. The 
learning which glossed over these failings 
was repudiated as false. The epithet 
"bookish” meant "hopeless;” no fool was 
so great. 

Jacob Hays felt the weight of this crit- 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


99 


icism keenly. The thought of his son’s 
failure was like a pursuing fate, a dis- 
quieting presence that would not be gone. 
It claimed his peace by day, his sleep by 
night. Every morning this insistent pres- 
ence bade him remember ‘dike a blow in 
the face,” he confided to his wife. “Your 
son is a failure” was its constant re- 
minder. 

And Philip? How strange life was 
without him, how unreal! Why, he had 
been the hope of the home — that boy — 
and it was like groping blindly about in 
the dark with that hope gone. There was 
no pleasure in buying or selling, in profit 
or gain. Glendower’s best stories were 
without point or interest, and the little 
home — why, it had shrunken to bare 
walls, with a hearthstone as cheerless as 
dead ashes. 

No one dreamed how often that home- 
ly phrase, “that boy o’ mine,” trembled 
on the father’s lips; nor how he missed 
its charm of complete ownership. It was 


lOO 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


as if something high and mighty within 
him had toppled to desolation. 

Could Philip retrieve himself ? The 
thought was inspiring. Why, not even 
Fairfield plantation or the little brown 
cottage, or the hoarded coins which be- 
spoke years of grind and toil, were any- 
thing to him beside the making of that 
hoy. 

But what had come over the lad was 
a puzzling question. For months, even 
to the father’s stern scrutiny, Philip’s 
daily walk had been irreproachable. The 
quiet, unassuming boy was hardly known 
as the foolish youth of a year ago. Jacob 
Hays could not account for the change. 
He had no fault to find, no blame to be- 
stow. The old man had unconsciously of 
late been trending toward a higher walk 
in life himself, though the altitude was 
strange to him. 

‘What ails the boy, Abby?” he ques- 
tioned his wife one day. 

“It’s the Bible, Jacob, he’s studying. 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


lOl 


and Miss Theodora — and books/’ an- 
swered the mother, ignoring self, as moth- 
ers do. 

Miss Theodora watched from afar. 
She saw the struggle in Philip’s soul and 
left him wisely alone. He had been helped 
and bolstered too much. She was relieved 
that Millicent was absent through the 
summer holidays, and Philip was alone to 
work out his own salvation. Miss Theo- 
dora had him often to tea, however, put- 
ting out her best china and linen, observ- 
ing with strict decorum the minute de- 
tails of table etiquette. 

At the frequent social occasions for 
which the White House had earned a 
name, Philip was an invited guest. These 
rather heavy, formal dinners were re- 
lieved by the sparkle of wit and repartee, 
the friction of scintillating minds. Mr. 
Stanley was at his best — congenial, bril- 
liant, courtly. 

Philip thanked his kind hostess in his 
heart for many a useful lesson. 


102 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


His keen relish for intellectual compan- 
ionship, his easy comprehension of schol- 
arly intercourse, was apparent. But no 
one knew the eternal vigilance he kept 
upon himself, lest any slip of tongue be- 
tray the Glendower speech or lapse of 
manner reveal him a son of the vil- 
lage. 

After the harvesting, Philip ‘'laid by” 
his corn with a finish that called forth a 
remark from the village idlers. He now 
spent his leisure morning hours upon the 
hills of Glendower, alone with his books. 
There, on a shaded slope with low-swing- 
ing beech limbs sweeping his face with 
every breeze, he read or studied through- 
out uncounted hours. The Bible was his 
chief and engrossing thought. He sought 
the Book in an extremity of soul, and his 
search was for divine light, irrespective 
of Glendower creed or dogma. He turned 
the leaves curiously. Here was a book 
of world-old history, bearing among its 
momentous happenings a mission for 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


103 


mankind, with a destiny for man, unlike 
that of any other conception of pen or 
brain. It had overruled many a storm of 
doubt and inquiry. From age to age it 
had been the work of scientists, anti- 
quarians, or skeptics to tear down, up- 
root, or rebuild; yet the old story re- 
mained the same, bearing its burden of 
love’s promise and love’s Fulfillment. 
What witchery of faith invested the 
sacred pages! what healing balm for the 
nations ! what charm for all ages ! 

Philip had long been interested in the 
history of the Hebrew people, but never 
before had prose or poem appealed to him 
as did the magnificent flow and rhythm 
of this ancient epic literature. What 
mighty spirit stirred these old Jewish 
writers, as the unseen wind the trees of 
a forest! Poets, philosophers, psalmists 
proclaimed the sublimest thoughts of all 
ages. The noble army of prophets 
swelled the eternal harmony of the uni- 
versal song. Deep called unto deep. 


104 THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 

The coming One, the Redeemer, was the 
majestic theme of all eloquence. 

That Philip found the Messiah, wheth- 
er in spirit or prophecy, ages before his 
coming thrilled the boy to his heart’s core. 
Many a sin-sick soul in hoary ages be- 
fore had leaped forward to his advent, 
and many a weary one to-day harked 
backward to that momentous period of 
the world’s history when One lived who 
had power to forgive sins and who died 
once for all men. To Philip’s mind, great 
works were but the natural outcome of 
this glorious Person. He was Lord of the 
forces of nature. What were miracles 
to him — the divine Son of God? Yet he 
lived a simple life among men. He 
taught a simple gospel. His illustrations 
a child might have understood: of wheat 
fields and harvesting; of figs and thistles; 
of grapes, meat, bread; of a sparrow; 
of a lily. Was there anything that 
concerned the soul of man that he did 
not touch upon? Was there ever a con- 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


105 

ception in the mind of man so vast, 
so stupendous, so conceived in infinite 
love, as the glorious plan of redemp- 
tion? 

Philip closed the book at last with an 
overwhelming sense of his own littleness. 
Paul’s masterly letters, his spiritual mys- 
teries, his intellectual version of the high- 
er life only heightened the boy’s dis- 
comfort. He was wont to sift a book for 
its concise meaning, but here he found 
himself groping for the truth. He de- 
scended the hill to the trivial affairs of 
Glendower with a spiritual unrest that 
knew no quieting. 

^'Unworthy I am,” he cried, ''unclean, 
unclean !” 

The struggle went on through the 
summer’s prime. Philip, who had swung 
clear of Glendower praise or condemna- 
tion, was now pleading his cause before a 
higher Tribunal; and he was a suppliant 
not to be denied. His naturally strong- 
willed nature brooked no refusal. There 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


ig6 

were times when he knocked boldly at a 
throne of grace, demanding his inherit- 
ance. Again his humble prayer rose 
above all clamor of heart and mind for 
simple faith and mercy. Day after day 
he went about with a godly sorrow in his 
heart, with all his strength loathing sin 
and human weaknesses, longing with all 
his soul for the courts of the Lord. 

It was only after a travail of spirit, an 
extremity of repentant sorrow, that his 
contrite prayer reached divine recogni- 
tion. Then, overshadowed by infinite 
mercy, he lay prostrate in soul, prone by 
the Rock of Ages, hiding in the cleft of 
God’s pity until his. glory passed by. 

Summer time was waning, the August 
days were growing misty, and the nights 
were chill with a breath of autumn. 
Philip began to prepare for his return to 
L — University. He acquainted his fa- 
ther with his plans for the future, not for- 
getting to mention his hope of a higher 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


107 

life and the Christian faith that sustained 
him. 

Jacob Hays listened silently, shifting 
his stick from hand to hand with an un- 
certain motion. He had expected the re- 
turn to school, and his soul was exercised 
over the success of the same; but this re- 
ligious turn ! What did it mean? Was it 
another cranky notion or a confession of 
weakness? There were times when a vil- 
lager ^‘joined the Church'’ after some be- 
littling act in the public eye, endeav- 
oring thus to reinstate himself into pub- 
lic favor. Would Philip be so judged? 
Glendower would furnish a summary of 
the case before many days, and the qual- 
ity of ‘"sticking" would be righteously en- 
larged upon. But the father was feeling 
for the heart of his son. A false step he 
would not make. He could wait as well 
here as there. He could be patient as time 
itself should time prove his son worthy. 

‘T ain't ag'in' ye, lad," he said at last. 
‘T wish ye well. As ye're goin' back to 


io8 THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 

school, seems like we couldn’t bear for ye 
to fail ag’in. We ain’t equal to it, you 
know — your mother and me,” he finished 
pathetically. 

won’t disappoint you again, father, 
believe me,” said Philip. 

‘We’re hopin’ not. As for ye j’ining 
the Church, I can’t rightly say that’s in 
my line ; but I’ll expect ye to stick to what 
ye profess,” said the old man simply. 

At the White House Philip opened his 
heart to Miss Theodora, assured of her 
comprehensive sympathy. He related to 
her his summer’s quest and experience. 
She listened surprisedly. Her fingers 
trembled over the keys of her piano. She 
turned to him with a shimmer of tears in 
her soft brown eyes as she said: “Flesh 
and blood hath not revealed unto thee, 
Philip, what thy soul hath sought.” 

A week later, when Philip took upon 
himself the vows of the Church, all Glen- 
dower gathered curiously. Philip was 
“turning over a new leaf,” to be sure, but 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


109 

the unlooked-for change was disconcert- 
ing. His quiet composure disarmed crit- 
icism. The move, however, was worthy 
of reflection. He had drawn a line, dis- 
tinct as day, between the two forces — the 
village church and the village store. 

Philip’s decision was for all time. He 
stood with his back to the world, his face 
toward the kingdom of light. His reward 
was the promise of ‘^everlasting life after 
death.” It is a wise provision which in- 
sures this inheritance of the immortal 
part of one into that other life beyond; 
but the stronghold of Philip’s faith was 
the prayer of his covenant : “Lord, if thou 
wilt direct my paths and go with me where 
I go, then shall I serve thee all the days 
of my life. Amen.” 

There is, perhaps, no attitude of man 
in the world to-day more beautiful than 
when a youth takes upon himself the vows 
of obedience to God, renouncing there- 
with the world, “the flesh, and the devil.” 
The “powers of darkness” are disowned 


no 


THAT BOY O* MINE. 


for the ''things of the Spirit/’ the gentle- 
ness and peace, the loving-kindness, and 
the charity that "never faileth.” 

Philip’s faith had been built on a good 
foundation. His had been a clean and 
wholesome past — no serving for swine, no 
feeding on husks, no prodigal returns. 
His spiritual eyes had been opened sim- 
ply to the "beauty of holiness” and the 
great "deformity of sin.” 

The music of the organ, under Miss 
Theodora’s skillful touch, thrilled him 
solemnly. He looked up to catch the in- 
spiring glow from his mother’s face. 
From a distant corner of the church sat 
the father, silent, unquestioning, with his 
eyes upon his son. But there was that 
about him which was not unresponsive, 
and Philip was content. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A S the time drew near for his depar- 
ture, Philip made careful arrange- 
ments for the comfort of his parents. 
The deal for the Fairfield plantation was 
complete; but Jacob Hays preferred to 
lease the lands and retain the cottage 
indefinitely, until Philip should ‘^pull 
through’' at college. There he would be 
found waiting until ‘^the boy” should 
prove himself. What the result would be, 
the old man could not determine. His 
vague trust was but a reflection of his 
confidence in Mr. Stanley’s word and 
Philip’s perseverance. So he wished him 
‘Veil” once more, as Philip turned again 
to college life, and, as he hoped, to a more 
eventful career at L — University. 

Miss Theodora, who had busied herself 
with helpful ministries in Philip’s behalf, 
waited now with anxious interest for news 

(III) 


II2 


THAT BOY O' MINE. 


of him. She received a card announcing 
his arrival, and later a hurried note from 
him with the information that he had se- 
cured board with a cultured family near 
the University grounds. This was grati- 
fying, as was also the remembrance that 
Philip’s trunk was well packed, and 
packed well, with clothing of a gentle- 
man’s cloth and needful accessories of a 
gentleman’s toilet. These little details 
she communicated to Millicent in answer 
to her eager inquiries. 

Then the weeks slipped by. Golden 
September waned and October spread her 
gorgeous banner. There came at last 
a closely written letter from Philip, giv- 
ing a detailed account of college life, with 
his hopes and experiences. He was mak- 
ing his way, by inches, perhaps, but was 
gaining, nevertheless. Sometime later 
another letter, in happier vein, gave evi- 
dence of ^^gaining steadily.” 

^Ulendower proclivities,” he wrote, 
‘‘are dying hard within me, but dying 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


”3 


surely. It is this constant watch and 
guard upon myself that tries my nerve. 
But here I concentrate my forces.’’ 

^'His will is superb,” said Miss Theo- 
dora, with tears in her eyes. 

She read on: ‘"My studies are a pleas- 
ure, as you know. Gaining in knowledge 
is growing in life to me. I am realizing 
sorely, however, my many deficiencies. 
By the way, my ‘Greek prafessor,’ or Pro- 
fessor of Greek, is kindness itself to me. 
He goes out of his way to help me and 
shows me always a most delicate consid- 
eration. I am resolved to reach his ex- 
pectations of me.” 

“Millicent was wiser than she knew,” 
said Miss Theodora, as she folded the let- 
ter. “Philip is sure to win. He will 
know no such word as ‘fail.’ ” 

There were happy little visits across 
the way, where the mother waited. Miss 
Theodora’s encouraging words were 
sweeter than wine. The mother’s heart 
throbbed tumultuously as she listened, 
8 


THAT BOY MINE. 


114 

taking off her moist glasses and putting 
them on again and saying little. Abilene 
Hays never said much. ‘Thilip is a good 
boy/’ more frequently voiced her feelings. 

It was Jacob Hays who hunted about in 
a fumbling manner for ‘Thilip’s last let- 
ter/’ and would Miss Theo ‘Vead it off, 
now,” being as his ^^specs” was failing? 

‘'The boy’s well, I take it?” he ques- 
tioned anxiously, as he creased the letter 
with unsteady hands. 

Philip’s letters came dutifully. Miss 
Theodora noticed a distinct upward trend 
in their tone and sentiment. She was 
forced often to read between the lines for 
signs of progress. He wrote less of him- 
self. After pleasing details of college life 
and personal mention of excellent college 
friends he had gained, he concluded oc- 
casionally: "As for Philip Preston Hays, 
he is what he is by God’s grace.” 

And so the months passed. Philip re- 
mained at school through the Christmas 
season. His letters came at rarer inter- 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


”5 


vals toward the close of spring. But the 
recompense came in June, when his name 
appeared as a candidate for the B.A. de- 
gree on the class roll of honor. 

The summer holidays found him at 
home for a few days only. The son of 
the village, grown tall and broad-shoul- 
dered, with massive head and deep-set 
gray eyes and hair slightly curling, was 
barely recognized. Glendower had hard- 
ly time to shake off a summer lethargy 
for a punctilious greeting ere the college 
youth, with the college tone and atmos- 
phere about him, had returned to L — 
University. He had a class of boys who 
needed ''helping on'' in Greek, and his 
stay was limited. 

"Why, the boy'll be making his own 
way next year, almost," said Jacob Hays. 
"About as much, by slow calculatin', as 
he'd make off of these here thirty acres. 
He has a turn for making ends meet, that 
boy o' mine has. That's the Hays in him," 
he added meditatively. 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


ii6 

Philip took up a heavy course of study 
for the following year, which passed 
swiftly. Meanwhile his letters came un- 
failingly, feeding the mother's hopes, the 
father's ambitions, delighting the Stanley 
home; though mystifying Millicent, her- 
self a sweet girl graduate, with technical 
terms of athletic sports and contests. 
There were only short and infrequent 
visits home. 

The succeeding year passed as quickly. 
It is needless to follow up the busy days 
which brought him, at the year's end, his 
diploma with the honor of a degree. 

It was in June, when Glendower roses 
nodded over paled gardens and swung to 
every breeze, that a happy party of three 
attended the commencement exercises at 
L — University. 

Abilene Hays, gowned and bonneted 
under Miss Theodora's careful super- 
vision, wore the roses of youth in her 
comely cheeks ; and surely no mother 
within the circle of Tennessee hills car- 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


117 

ried so happy a heart. Philip truly was 
a son to be proud of, as he stood before 
them in immaculate dress, wearing his 
honors with simple grace and dignity. 
How quietly he carried himself — this 
handsome, athletic son of Glendower ! 
There was about him a careful courtesy, 
a steady composure, that only Miss Theo- 
dora, who knew the ruling of his mag- 
nificent will, understood. His speech was 
a masterly effort, bringing a generous 
round of applause. The mother’s radi- 
ant eyes brought a lump to Miss Theo- 
dora’s throat, and Millicent, who sat be- 
hind a massive bouquet with heavy white 
satin streamers, whispered on the verge 
of hysterical tears: son of my adop- 

tion, Theo, TheoT 

Jacob Hays held in his hands a marvel 
of printing and satiny gloss — a com- 
mencement programme of L — Univer- 
sity. He handled the leaves clumsily, his 
eyes searching with painful bewilder- 


ii8 THAT BOY O' MINE. 

merit for the one familiar name in the 
list of the honor roll — Philip Preston 
Hays, B.A. He folded the paper and 
placed it in his pocket, only to take it out 
again, and yet again, to read the name 
anew. 

Philip had won. There was his name 
in plain black and white, with the extra 
letters not found in his baptismal name. 
The long waiting was over. The boy had 
his sheepskin. He had medals too — re- 
wards of merit and honor. Why, he had 
got a powerful grip on himself, somehow, 
that boy of his. That was due to the 
Hays blood in him, no doubt. But it was 
something to be the father of such a lad. 

Now for Fairfield plantation! The 
brown cottage had served its day. He 
would show that boy a thing or two in 
farming. 

Philip Preston Hays, B.A. 1 Yes, he 
had pulled through to his credit. Every- 
body had heard of the sheepskin; the 
news traveled fast. But these letters 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


119 


now — they were something new to Glen- 
dower. And picking up his stick, which 
he forgot to lean upon, Jacob Hays pro- 
ceeded to the village store, where Glen- 
dower peered over his shoulder and read 
and spelled and reread with a like be- 
wilderment — Philip Preston Hays, B.A. ! 

Mr. Stanley, who was walking expect- 
antly on the long front gallery of the 
White House, gave his old neighbor a 
cordial greeting as he entered abruptly, 
holding up the well-thumbed witness of 
his son’s success. 

'The boy’s done fairly well, I take it,” 
ventured the father with ill-concealed 
pride. 

"Excellently well, old man,” was Mr. 
Stanley’s smiling rejoinder. 

"And them letters, now, they mean 
something a leetle extry, don’t they? Jes’ 
as if that — that boy o’ mine had come off 
with credit and — honor — as a gentleman 
might. I make it out that way.” 

"Yes, Jacob, they mean all that,” said 


120 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


Mr. Stanley, greatly touched. ''Your son 
is a scholar and a gentleman.’’ 

But Jacob Hays could not linger under 
the sound of such excellent praise. He 
bade his friend a hurried "Good evenin’ ” 
and passed out under the low-hanging 
beeches, leaving a glimmer of white socks 
and white homemade suspenders. Nor 
did this end the matter. He reappeared 
the next evening with unwearied steps, 
finding his accustomed seat around the 
library lamp. His eyes followed Millicent 
with curious glances. He was genial, 
smiling, restless. Mr. Stanley saw signs 
of an upheaval of some nature. 

"Is it the crops or the weather to-night, 
old man ?” he questioned with a humorous 
twinkle in his eyes. 

"It’s neither one, I guess,” answered 
Jacob Hays comfortably. 

"Indeed? Come, Jacob! And no poli- 
tics?” asked Mr. Stanley, feelingly. 

"No — no politics, neither. It’s this I’ve 
got to say,” he began emphatically, after 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


I2I 


a pause. ''It’s a debt Fm owing ye, and 
you, Miss Theo, an’ more especially Mil- 
licent over there — the first debt a Hays 
ever owed. An’ I’m here to thank ye all 
for helping on that boy o’ mine.” 

"Philip was good material and worthy 
of help,” ventured Mr. Stanley. 

"Aye, that’s true ; but there’s many like 
him, and who helps? I’ve figgered it out 
over yonder. I ain’t been idle,” he touched 
his forehead significantly, "an’ I make it 
out this way : Them that’s rich in sympa- 
thy for the struggling boy have got no 
means, an’ them that’s rich in means is 
poor in feelin\ There’s some exceptions. 
I ain’t likely to forget that.” He picked 
up his stick reflectively. "I calculate, by 
your feelin' an’ your money both, Philip’s 
a clear gain to the world.” He laid his 
hand on Millicent’s sunny curls. "An’ 
the tale ain’t told yet, Millicent — not nigh 
told. He’s a masterful man, that boy o’ 
mine.” 

Philip’s success was gratifying. He 


122 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


had fought his way upward through 
many a struggle and difficulty — fought his 
way victoriously, bearing the esteem of 
college mates and college dignitaries, car- 
rying off rewards easily, making an ex- 
ceptional record in time and ability, and 
never failing each year the promotion of 
honor. His satisfactory progress was 
enough to feed his old-time vanity; but a 
trace now of egotism was indeed hard to 
find. His old enemy, being evil, was yet 
a foe. Compliments, perforce, were 
adroitly turned and delicately delivered 
to meet his acceptance. The only incident 
which disturbed his poise of manner or 
brought back a hint of the old irritation 
was a bit of fulsome praise. 

Philip was now in mental swing and 
training for his university course. The 
first year won him the degree of M.A., 
and to his pleasure the appointment of a 
fellowship in Greek. The remaining two 
years were passed pleasantly. Studious 
application had become an intellectual 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


123 


relish. After the close of the latter term, 
Philip Preston Hays, B.A., M.A., Ph.D., 
wrote to Miss Theodora: “My professor 
of Greek is now touring Europe. He has 
accepted a call to the Chair of Languages 
at another university, and I gratefully 
accept his vacated seat. His mantle, beau- 
tiful to me, at least, as my highest dream, 
falls upon my unworthy shoulders.’’ 

Philip Hays had won. There was no 
denying it. But his native village, grown 
wary in the school of experience and hith- 
erto intolerant of reproof, from whose 
time-honored platform justice had been 
handed about for uncounted years and 
mercy doled out to a favored few — Glen- 
dower had fallen into an acknowledged 
error. It was a foolish mistake to dis- 
claim the only hope of a distinguished 
son. 

That Philip was making a distinguished 
career at L — University, there was no 
doubt. Why, the boy held a chair in 


124 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


Greek and taught Sanskrit or some such 
dead language. The numerous additions 
to his name were proof of his high stand- 
ing as a teacher in that great university. 
Moreover, he was known throughout the 
whole community as a ‘Trst-class gentle- 
man.’’ 

Jacob Hays himself had pulled up in 
the world amazingly. He had outgrown 
his little farm, with many of his little 
ways, and was now managing the broad 
lands of Fairfield plantation successfully, 
a busy man of affairs. He passed the 
village store at times, driving his two fat 
mules to a comfortable surrey, or was 
seen on the village street holding his staff 
well forward, walking with the air of a 
prosperous man. It was noticeable too 
that the proud possessive, ''that boy o’ 
mine,” rolled easily over his tongue again ; 
but he had no leisure now for the village 
store or village gossip — not he. 

What was to be done? Glendower be- 
gan to cast about for a way of renewing 


THAT BOY O* MINE. 


125 

the old relationship. Propitiatory ad- 
vances were cautiously made. An occa- 
sional nut to crack was handed the alien 
son, over which Philip smiled good- 
humoredly. At last an astute plan was 
hit upon which promised an amicable un- 
derstanding. An invitation to deliver a 
lecture at Glendower church was for- 
warded to him. It was laboriously writ- 
ten, and, being of a petition-like form, was 
signed unanimously. To the surprise of 
some, Philip accepted. 

It was again glorious June weather. 
The village was a riot of bloom and per- 
fume. The alders by the water courses 
sent out a subtle fragrance from creamy 
white blossoms. Honeysuckles swung 
their cups of incense on the evening air 
from sprays of living green. Roses 
bloomed in wanton profusion or scram- 
bled in a mass of leaf and flower over 
their picket fencing. ^'Ragged robins’’ 
and sweet clove pinks graced the door- 


126 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


ways, poppies lifted delicate silken petals 
from shaded beds, and hollyhocks, like 
sweet faces in ruffled caps, peered over 
their inclosures, belying their demure ap- 
pearance by a gaudy line of flame, crim- 
son, and yellow. 

Glendower turned out in a body; and 
being in a conciliatory mood, there was 
not a home which had not been taxed for 
a posy and not a home failed to pay its 
tribute. 

Miss Theodora — always ^^Miss Theo- 
dora’’ to the people, though she was now 
a happy matron, living by the side of that 
one who was in every way her worthy 
helpmeet and coworker — entered largely 
into church decorations, and kindly ar- 
ranged a musical programme, with Milli- 
cent’s ardent help. The evening was soft 
and fine. The lighted church, with its 
perfume of roses, appealed to the senses 
pleasingly. An expectant crowd waited. 

Mr. Stanley felt it his duty to intro- 
duce the speaker, who entered quietly and 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


127 


Stood before his audience, tall, athletic, 
scholarly, with a grave, gentle demeanor 
and a certain careful courtesy ; grown 
older, wiser, yet plain, simple, unostenta- 
tious — that was Philip. 

‘‘The Boy and the Training School.’’ 
Philip knew his audience. He was fa- 
miliar with Glendower idiosyncrasies. 
He understood the needs of his neigh- 
bors, and he had an interest in his native 
village. He had also gained from the 
world many useful experiences during his 
six years of absence. 

His lecture was sincere, practical, bare 
of theory. His manner was quiet, cour- 
teous. If there quivered a tender note 
at times, with a slight pause in his speech, 
it was because — well, the happy faces of 
a certain old couple before him over- 
whelmed his senses for the moment. 

Philip held up the boy in his different 
phases of character, with his aspirations, 
his possibilities, and urgent needs. There 
was running through his lecture a strong 


128 


THAT BOY 0' MINE. 


appeal for the youth of Glendower, and 
he knew just when and where to press 
home to a tender spot, to uncover old 
mistakes, to lay bare a truth or unearth 
hoary prejudices. The advantages of a 
high-grade training school for the com- 
munity for posterity he laid before his 
hearers with telling emphasis. He closed 
his address by giving many points of in- 
terest concerning college life and spent 
some time in details of the educational 
methods of a great university, opening 
to the inner mind of the simple villagers 
a new world of culture and mental train- 
ing. 

There was a goodly crowd present. 
With the village proper were the sturdy, 
well-to-do members of the Church from 
within and over the surrounding hills. 
Some of the wealthy from adjoining es- 
tates were interested listeners. Philip 
kept careful watch on the upturned faces, 
which reflected his earnest interest. He 
caught a glow, a responsive warmth. 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


129 

which was somewhat akin to enthusiasm. 
The trend of feeling was favorable. 

The lecture was, happily, a signal suc- 
cess. Glendower sat under the sound of 
it with a strange realization of misspent 
years. It was as if these worthy villagers 
had looked down upon themselves and be- 
come suddenly aware of their coarse shoes 
and idle hands, their careless dress and 
coatless indulgence. They found them- 
selves stripped of the sophistries that be- 
guiled their leisure hours. The truths 
which were thrust upon them so squarely 
threatened a vital blow at their boasted 
peace. After all, were they not mistaken 
pleasures — the tobacco-spitting, aimless 
life, the busybody tales, and the stale jokes 
of the village store ? The world was mov- 
ing on. How far could they afford to lin- 
ger behind ? 

The truth was, Glendower was grow- 
ing weary of living in the past, which was 
fast growing eventful only in misdeeds 
and errors. There was one dreary chap- 
9 


130 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE, 


ter in the history of the village (a late ex- 
perience, rather) which was seldom re- 
ferred to — a short but fearful reign of the 
tippling shop. It was this sinful deviation 
from rectitude, with all its unhappy conse- 
quences, that perhaps quickened the vil- 
lage conscience. It was this rebound of 
soul, following a moral collapse, which 
doubtless responded to Philip’s call for 
something better. 

And the children? Why, these village 
fathers had forgotten their children — 
poor, weazen-faced prophecies of Glen- 
dower’s future! Now that the thought 
had come home to them, what was the dai- 
ly life of the children? Were they not as 
often cuffed into silence, to bed, or to 
work, driven to church or to school ? 
Were they not thrust aside for other and 
more selfish diversions? And their sur- 
reptitious Sunday fishings and ball games 
— were they not more often winked at or 
overlooked? Ah, the children! They 
were growing like weeds by the wayside 


THAT BOY 0 ' MINE. 


— unkempt and uncared for! And their 
needs were unrecognized. That question 
had not reached the village platform. Pa- 
rental responsibility hung heavy indeed 
over Glendower. 

Philip was feeling his way. After 
thanking his hearers for their thoughtful 
attention, he descended the speaker’s 
stand and stood among them, making no 
apologies for an informal talk. He was 
one of them, a plain boy of the village, 
with his heart and interests there. 

He had not come to them without a 
message, nor had he come empty-handed. 
He was prepared to say that an oppor- 
tunity lay waiting for Glendower — an 
unusual advantage of an up-to-date 
training school should the cooperative 
will of the village meet halfway the gen- 
erous offer of certain philanthropists. 
Glendower a seat of learning, an educa- 
tional center — was not the thought a 
pleasing one? 

The silence was oppressive. Mr. 


132 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


Stanley leaned forward eagerly. Philip’s 
steady self-control was manifest. ‘'Do 
not the fathers of this community love 
their children?” he asked quietly. “Then 
why not equip them for life? The future 
is theirs. Glendower will be theirs by in- 
heritance. Worthily or unworthily, they 
will some day fill the places of their fa- 
thers. Shall we educate or not the rising 
generation ?” 

The idea evolved slowly in the dazed 
mind of the village. The moments were 
heavy with uncertainty. Mr. Pugh, a 
highly esteemed neighbor, whose sterling 
qualities made him so, arose to his feet. 
He was an advocate for the school. He 
believed in educating the mind of man. 
The speaker of the evening himself was 
a living illustration of the truth he 
preached. His talents, so enlarged upon 
by public approval, were better explained 
as the result of study and college train- 
ing. Any ordinary mind could be edu- 
cated beyond its common level to some- 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


m 


thing higher and better. A training 
school for Glendower ! He finished 
with an offer of ten acres of village 
ground, as ^^beautiful for situation’’ as the 
new church which stood in her glorious 
array of white and green under the Glen- 
dower beeches. 

Teddy Reynolds was quickly on his 
feet with an impromptu speech of Irish 
wit, and his offer of a carpenter’s share. 

Mr. Stanley followed. The present un- 
dertaking had long lain close to his heart. 
A high-grade school was an urgent ne- 
cessity for the welfare of the community 
and coming generations. The opportuni- 
ty was at hand. His generous donation 
brought forth a cheer. 

It was then that Jacob Hays ''calcu- 
lated” on a sum of such amazing liberal- 
ity that Philip, who was seated by a light- 
ed table busy with notebook and pencil, 
looked up quizzically and threw a hu- 
morous glance in his father’s direction. 
Others followed, men of wealth and com- 


134 


THAT BOY 0’ MINE. 


fortable livers, who swelled the school 
fund to generous proportions. 

This strange and far-reaching idea 
which found its way slowly to the village 
understanding was slower still to con- 
summate; but when at last the thought 
took shape, then — O miracle of Glendow- 
er poverty! — the citizens arose with gifts 
in their hands for the cause of education, 
offerings that could not have been 
summed up in meager numbers. Honest 
gifts they were, honestly earned — gifts 
that savored, perhaps, of conscience 
money, with the cry of the children in 
their ears — ^but gifts they were, neverthe- 
less, which were coined in toil and econ- 
omy, the slow accumulation of patient 
years. 

The occasion was a revelation of the 
innate nobleness of man. The well- 
springs of the village deep were broken 
up, and the hoarded generosity of years 
poured forth like living water. 

Mr. Stanley’s face was pale with a 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 135 

tense excitement. Miss Theodora shaded 
her eyes from the light, while Millicent 
wept and smiled unrestrainedly. 

The figures were mounting rapidly. 
Philip’s pen trembled slightly over his 
notebook. There was once when his face 
went white with emotion as the mothers 
of Glendower, with trembling haste, of- 
fered freely of their narrow resources. 
The living stream poured out, poured in, 
and Philip arose at last with a smile. ‘‘A 
high-grade training school for Glendow- 
er,” he announced clearly to the eager 
crowd. There was a cheer, a wave of re- 
joicing which brought Mr. Stanley again 
to his feet. 'Thilip!” He laid his hand 
on Philip’s arm with a fond clasp. ^Why, 
Philip, boy !” he said afifectionately, ^ Vhat 
persuasion had you, my son — my son?** 

Now the rest is Glendower history. A 
passing traveler may hear the story any 
day should he choose to linger at the vil- 
lage store; but one other little incident at 


THAT BOY 0‘ MINE. 


136 

the White House remains to be told, 
which is yet unchronicled in the village 
annals. 

A few days after the eventful lecture 
Mr. Stanley sat in his library reviewing 
the affair in a pleasant reverie. There 
was much to assure him in the noble ca- 
reer of Philip Hays. Indeed, the Stanley 
household had cause for rejoicing over 
the ^'prodigy’’ whom Millicent had ven- 
tured to adopt. Her pleasure was as en- 
thusiastic as Miss Theodora’s was quiet 
and sincere. And Philip, whose calls dur- 
ing the holidays were even more frequent 
than formerly, assured them often that 
next to a certain old couple the most loyal 
feelings of his heart were due at the 
White House. 

The village youth had won a glorious 
victory. In the slow struggle for his ideal 
character he had thrust aside environ^ 
ments and stripped himself of burden- 
some inheritances. ‘Tile theory upon the- 
ory,” he was fond of quoting from a cer- 


THAT BOY 0^ MINE. 


137 


tain learned financier, ''and I will have 
none of it. But I bow to the supremacy 
of a fact. What has been done can be 
done again.'’ 

Not only was his career a marked suc- 
cess, but to Mr. Stanley's knowledge 
Philip's happy-hearted Christianity was 
the natural result of a good conscience 
and a clean record. Whole-hearted ad- 
herence to the Christian faith, with an in- 
tellectual appreciation of its conception, 
could not but result in a healthy and hap- 
py state of being. 

But the lecture and the training school 
— what a hold had Philip on his native vil- 
lage ! Why, a high-grade school for Glen- 
dower had been a hope on which Mr. 
Stanley had spent an unceasing and un- 
rewarded labor of years. But the ferment 
now at the village store promised a rev- 
olution of the very heart and life of Glen- 
dower. For once enthusiasm ran high. 
The community was startled into action 
of a rational and healthy type for a 



''Aye, that’s the Hays in him,” remarked the 
father absently. 




THAT BOY O* MINE. 


139 

radius of twenty miles — a training school 
for Glendower. 

It was at this juncture of pleasing re- 
flections that Jacob Hays made a hasty 
call at the White House, as was his wont 
to do on some of his busy errands from 
Fairfield plantation. Mr. Stanley re- 
ceived him with cordial friendliness. The 
old man’s greeting was a strange mix- 
ture of anxious inquiry and unbounded 
pride. 

'We think now,” he questioned cau- 
tiously, "that boy o’ mine’s a pretty fair 
speaker, ain’t he?” 

Mr. Stanley expressed himself as hav- 
ing been highly entertained and deeply in- 
terested. "Philip’s record has been very 
gratifying,” he continued. "He has 
shown great pluck and endurance.” 

"Aye, that’s the Hays in him,” re- 
marked the father absently. 

He stirred with an anxious unrest. Mr. 
Stanley had learned long ago when the 
old man was bent on a mission. 


140 


THAT BOY 0* MINE. 


‘^Like as not Glendower’ll have that 
trainin’ school?” 

am quite sure of it,” responded Mr. 
Stanley; ''and a blessing it will be.” 

"Yas — yas.” 

Jacob Hays handled his stick restlessly. 
He picked up his hat and laid it down 
again with anxious solicitude. 

"Ye think now,” he ventured suddenly, 
"that a year or two in them furrin parts 
— say Germany now — would help the boy 
on, bein’ as he’s reached a putty high 
notch in this locality?” 

Mr. Stanley steadied himself. "Why, 
yes, Jacob; a university course abroad is 
a great advantage to an aspiring youth.” 

"The boy’s done well, there’s no deny- 
in’ it; and I ain’t the one to stand in his 
way while he’s addin’ on them honorary 
letters to his name. Here’s two thousand 
now, which I wish ye’d hand him for me. 
He’ll want a trip or two in them parts, I 
reckon.” He produced an old but ple- 
thoric wallet. "It made itself while I was 


THAT BOY O’ MINE. 


141 

waitin’ over yonder.” He nodded toward 
the brown cottage. 

Mr. Stanley felt for the wallet with 
dimming vision. 

Jacob continued: ''I calculate I owe ye 
about as much an’ more than any livin' 
man. You and your daughters have 
helped to make that boy what he is — and 
— say now, ye may count on me for that 
trainin’ school, or Stanley College ye 
might prac^fc^ally say. It’ll need help- 
in’ on.” 

‘Thank you, Jacob, old friend,” said 
Mr. Stanley. 

Jacob Hays picked up his hat and 
looked it over carefully. “Ye’ll persuade 
the boy to go, bein’ as he’s hankerin’ after 
them furrin countries. He still has a 
mind to learn, I notice. He alius was a 
peart chap — that boy o’ mine.” 


CHAPTER VIL 


Finis. 

A S an appendix to Glendower history, 
the crowning but unpremeditated 
chapter in the making of Philip 
must be related. It so happened, there- 
fore, that in the course of time and events, 
as Philip stood on the deck of an ocean 
steamer bound for that acme of his 
hopes, he was not alone. There beside 
him, and much to his tender concern, 
stood his wife waving her handkerchief 
toward familiar forms over the New 
York harbor. A girlish creature, round- 
ed into curves and dimples, of pink and 
white bloom and delicious sweetness; a 
creature of affection, a true daughter of 
the South, all smiles and sunshiny tears 
or caressing tenderness, a delightsome 
soul in a faithful little body — who could 
she have been but Millicent? 

(142) 


THAT BOY MINE. 


H3 


^Tor, Theo dear/’ she had coaxed ir- 
resistibly, ^'how could I desert him now, 
after all these years? He needs me so — 
hhat boy o’ mine.’ ” 

These unlooked-for proceedings, how- 
ever, left Mr. Stanley in solitary state, if 
a scholar of resources can ever be alone. 
The White House doors still stood invit- 
ingly open to guest and passer-by or glad 
home comer. The library shelves were 
confidingly companionable; the faithful 
desk itself an antidote for ennui. And 
there, ah, yes! were the goodly propor- 
tions of Stanley College, crowning a glo- 
rious outlook. It was a handsome build- 
ing with clock and tower. Already the 
college bell rang its sonorous morning 
calls over the hills of Glendower, min- 
gling, hardly less sweet than the chiming 
of the church bells, with the children’s 
happy voices in Happy Hollow. 





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